I'm No Monster (Original Short)

Lola fussed with her purse and her keys silently, trying to get into the car. Her day had been hectic. With everything going on between the humans and the vampires and now new politics were being thrown around. She shook her head at all the paperwork she knew she'd have to deal with come Monday. THAT was horrifying. She shut the door of her Mercedes SUV and pushed the button to fire up the engine and take her home. She hoped traffic would be light today. She could use something easy today.

As she drove she put the whole day on cruise control, letting her subconscious deal with sorting out the rest of her issues. A poppy little ballad with some woman played on in the background as Lola eased through the minimal traffic. The thoughts of a rogue vampire doing all this to disrupt the truce was almost absurd! Why would anyone want that? To go back to the dark ages, again? She shook her head as she began to quietly sing along, the train of thought still continuing. Her last thought on the highway was about Balthezar and what The Community planned to do with him.

Now the stop and go of neighborhoods replaced the long and placid freeway, her vehicle handling it all with ease. Lola considered leaving The Community, stop being a peacekeeper for two factions that had nothing but hate for one another, but they paid her well. Her law degree wouldn't have afforded her her car or her four bedroom house, which she pulled into as she finished her thoughts. As she sighed out the last of her work day she got her purse and her cell phone, which chimed about an email received. The keys with the big gold "L" attached to them jingled for a second before she pushed her door open. There was beeping and digital voices asking for a password and she complied with a sigh, pushing 'enter' to silence it all.

The voice that came from behind her was smooth and gentle with a hint of surprise, "I would have guessed your mother's birthday." Lola tried to whirl around to meet the owner of the voice, but her world became a violent blur. She barely recognized her glasstop table as she went through it, shattering it to a billion pieces. She couldn't help the moan that escaped her throat as she tried to find her hands and knees, shards and edges cutting up her palms and knees. Again the voice spoke from behind her, "I'm very sorry you're involved in this, truly I am. But things are what they are. I know you're sick and you've been waiting to be turned. That's why you accepted the job of Mediator or Peacekeeper or whatever the title is now a days." Lola crawled forward, looking for her phone or where it may have landed.

Her dizzy eyes found it a few feet away, she pushed herself towards her goal. Her world became a hurried rush of images as she flew the air once again, this time her china cabinet caught her with rigid and painful arms. She knew things had broken that time and panic took over, "Who...who are you? What do you...want?" She choked out between blood filled coughs. Her body was numb with terror, she found her feet fast and saw her attacker. He was tall, thin, hair a bit longer than the norm with a clean shaven face, handsome, his eyes shone with The Fire of the Night. Vampire. His hand shot out at barely conceivable speed and wrapped long fingers around her throat as he answered, "I want an end." She tried to fight him off, but she was far too weak, as he dragged her over to the next room with her two favorite chairs. Lola's bruised and broken body was shoved into one and he sat in the other.

She struggled to breath with the broken ribs in her chest, but she had to try to talk sense into the vampire. "An end...to what?" He studied her with violet eyes for a moment before waving his hand in a dismissing manner, "Don't worry about that, Lola. Just know that you are an innocent in all this." Her whole body pulsated with pain as she tried again, "My husband...." The vampire cut her off, "Hasn't been home for years. I hear divorce does that to some couples. What a man to leave just when you find out you have cancer, huh?" She ignored the jibe, "How do you know that?" He sat back, relaxing a bit, "It's what I have to do, Lola. Again. I am very, very sorry for all this. I promise I'll try to make the end quick. You'll have to forgive everything else up until then. It can't look like a vampire or a human killed you." She watched and began to cry softly as he raised his hand, the fingernails lengthening to claws. He stood before her, his other hand doing the same.

She still had an ounce of fight left, and she knew what they hated more than anything. She looked up at his beautiful pale face, "At least tell me your name!" She protested. "I am Michael." He bowed just a bit. She spit blood on him, "You're nothing but a monster." Michael, the vampire, didn't wipe away the spray of blood. "I'm not a monster. But I believe I can fulfill those fears rather nicely." Lola's scream was cut short.

Michael stood up and let out a sigh, looking down at the shredded remains of Lola's blue business suit and body. Now that the violence was finished business had to be conducted. After further trashing the house and leaving big, obvious clues, he went back to her body. The brand new cell phone unlocked with the birthdate of Lola's mother. He scrolled through the contacts with his still red digits and dialed the emergency line for the bureaucrats that ran The Community. He put the phone in her hand that still had fingers, and dropped a note atop the carnage. The hard part was about to begin.

Writing Competition (Deadman Entry)

Antiquities And Ash
By: Deadman

The two men in the dusty and torn jackets sat by the window of the small cafe. The lights flickered every now and again, dust fell from the loose ceiling tiles sporadically, obscuring the view for a few seconds. Despite the obvious turmoil that they were in the two men seemed jovial. John wore a blue suit decorated with rips and tears, and across from him sat Brian, a grey suit with burn marks here and there.

John was still smiling as he wiped a tear from his eye, brought on from laughter, “Yeah. I remember her. Judy. God she was ugly. Her boyfriend tried to pawn her off on me one time. I think you were there.” Brian thought for a moment, “Oh yeah! You were so drunk and what did you say...uh…?” They both rubbed scraped up chins with dirty hands as they tried to recall the phrase. The blonde man in the brown suit snapped his fingers as it came to him, “I remember! You said 'Dude! I don’t wanna fuck a dog!'”

They both erupted with laughter again, the grey suited one with dark hair added, “Yeah! You got in a fight with him that night.” They both laughed just a moment longer while each finishing off the beer bottle before them. Another rumble made the near dozen empties rattle against each other. A sigh ended their guffaws, the two men looking at the table between them, searching for another subject to discuss.

Soon their smiles melted to despaired frowns, a pair of bottles joined the others, and another rumble came. A few ceiling tiles fell, a light crashed to it’s spark-throwing end, none of it seemed to matter to John and Brian. The dark haired one spoke so soft it was barely audible, “Never thought those guys with those signs standing on the street corners telling us to ‘Repent or die’ would’ve been right.” John nodded his agreement, slipping the stolen glock pistol from his jacket pocket and placing it on the table. Brian gave a forlorn look from the weapon to it’s owner then did the same, producing his own pistol, a 1911.

“I have one round left.” Both sets of eyes went to the glock, then to the other. “Me, too.” Somebody screamed outside, long and bloody, ending in a gurgling sound. “Are you too drunk to pull that trigger?” John asked, keeping his eyes down. “No. Are you?” Brian responded. “No.” It was easy to understand what the blonde man with the grey suit was getting at. His blue eyes met Brian’s green ones. A window gave way on the other end of the diner, a sign that time was nearly up.

“I’m sorry you couldn’t save Becca and the kids.” Tears cut clean swaths in the ashes that covered both their faces as emotions bled through. “I’m sorry you had to watch your mom and brother go like that.” The two men looked at each other and nodded, their condolences said. John had always been the strong one in their 25 year friendship and now he had to use that strength, “At the same time. On three.”

Unsteady arms leveled weapons that only had a bullet each. Green and blue eyes stared down the barrel of a gun. “One.” They counted together. “Two.” One of their voices broke a bit. “Three.” Fingers started to squeeze triggers. Brian’s arm dropped to the table, not firing his last round, “I ca-” John’s gun flashed and the world went deaf for a moment, Brian slumped over in silence. The blonde man with no more bullets started screaming. He asked why over and over again. As he broke into sobs the windows next to him shattered. What looked like thick, black, smoke that was alive and writhing with purpose poured into the diner.

Everything shook again. Lines danced across the screen. The video ended. The time stamp on the corner of the screen placed it 160 years ago, to the day. The day now referred to as “Armaggedon”. Some call it “The Rapture”. But the few people left on this world agree that it was a day of darkness. Now the video footage of John and Brian is being sold in a slum market as an antiquity. A hard drive whirred loudly as a few buttons were pressed. Another video began to play.

The Stepping Stone (Original Short)

Michael sat back for months, watching all the infighting, backbiting, murders, and now ensuing power vacuum. He smiled. All this from three words and a little blood spilled. It was beauty. Four hundred plus years on this earth and he relished and abused, now, one simple fact: violence is in people's nature and so is the want to contradict. Now, the fever pitch was being reached, and it was time to initiate the next phase of his plan.

The streets were quiet as he walked, letting his highly tuned senses wander and take in the world around him. Orange street lights above gave everything a glow that was almost beautiful. Michael's thin frame was at home in the cold, the wind blowing softly against his designer shirt, giving him a thrilling chill. He wouldn't be cold for long. Soon he'd be soaked in blood and gore, his tender flesh would be bruised, and his appetite whet. Very soon. The block was approaching fast, and through his mind he ran the plan again, double checking for errors and faults.

Three bouncers sat outside the nightclub and asked for identification and a cover charge. Michael idly scratched his newly grown beard and wondered how his lengthening hair looked as he stepped through the door, sniffing the air for what he wanted. Pulsing music pounded his sensitive ears, a kaleidoscope of colors danced across faces and bodies, and Michael couldn't help but think of the last time he was in a place like this. A fanged smile ghosted across his thin lips.

Gently and politely he made his way through the crowd, to the bar. He didn't usually drink, but this place stank, he needed the liquor to drown out the smell. This particular club wasn't filled with vampires, no, this was a completely human place. After receiving his vodka on the rocks he leaned against the highly polished metal of the bar and expected a sting from the holster he'd been wearing lately, but it was absent. He didn't need guns for this part. This was easy.

He let the night go for an hour, taking in a few drinks to help cancel out the stale sweat stench, he even tried to enjoy the music. If random beeps and squeals and a voice thrown in every now and again to humanize it was what was considered music these days. Michael's eyes kept glancing over the second floor of the place, waiting for a certain light to come on, signaling his prey had arrived. As he waited people would try to make conversation with him, complimenting his clothes, his hair, his beard, and even asking for a dance. He smiled and politely declined them all, thanking others.

The alcohol flowing through his veins gave him a warm feeling inside, and made it all a bit more bearable. Doubt started to rear it's head as his violet eyes again played over the room he needed to be occupied. He sighed, breathing out the atmosphere, and looked again. Eureka. The tinted window lit up blue and shadows of men and women began to pile in. Michael left his drink at the bar and began to walk, now with purpose, to the staircase.

The first bouncer, human, held out a hand and attempted to stop him. Two choices lay ahead of him: violence or smarts. He opted for the latter. "I'm here for Anna. She's expecting me. My name is Jeremiah." The man reached into his pocket and drew out a paper, read it, eyed Michael up and down, then let him through. This happened three more times before he made it into the room. The door closed behind him and almost no one paid attention to him as he measured the four men in the room and his one target.

The violence was lightning fast. Michael's claws and superior strength made quick work of the body guards and now he stood before Anna, a woman in her 30's, well dressed and attractive, with blood sprayed across her face. She was the advocate and the peacemaker between the human hunters and certain political parties in the vampire world. Michael's hand, stained red past the wrist, making his hands look like they were gloved, grabbed her by the neck and stood her up.

She pleaded, clawed and kicked at him as he walked over to the window with her. Finally she asked, "What do you want?" Michael could only grin as he answered, "War." She began to protest but then he sank his fangs into her neck, shaking his head back and forth, tearing open her jugular. He drank deep. Her heart began to slow and he stopped, rearing back and licking the precious blood from his lips. "Please. Don't misunderstand. You're only a stepping stone. You had to die. But know, that in doing so, you will bring about great change."

Her glossed over eyes stared at him as her pale lips tried to form words. He slammed her head against the glass, cracking it. Again he slammed, more cracks. One last time and she flew through. Glass and chaos rained down upon the scene below. Michael walked away, enjoying the screams and the cacophony building below. With her dead the vampire houses that used her would have to do a lot of explaining to the humans, it would be obvious who killed her. More fuel to the fire. As he walked out the back door, wiping away all the crimson he smiled again.

The heavy door opened into the cool night, the smells, noise, and buzzing of the club were now behind him. Michael turned left and walked down the alley behind the place, lacing himself through the cars. He came upon another alley. He was about to enjoy his little victory when a fist collided with his chin, sending him against a brick wall. He met the floor fast, almost as fast as his assailant. With a spin Michael was on his feet, ready to meet his foe, but suddenly halted. He stared into the face of an old friend. An ancient friend. His sire. The name of the one who made him, and was now standing before him, fell from his lips, "Balthezar?"

Chelsea Atop The Wall (Original Short)

Chelsea sat at her post, watching the snow fall out on the abandoned freeway. The SUV packed to the brim with trained rescue guys just flew out of the gates that were promptly shut, entrapping her in her peaceful little world. Atop a twenty foot concrete wall Chelsea sat in her make shift crow's nest, watching the world below her, beyond her. Skills were bestowed upon her by her father, the last good hunter in the community meant she got duty of long-gun. Nobody took her seriously because of her age, but her targets and their constant holes where the bulls-eye should be, would command respect and often silence.

Winter had come in heavy this year, and she knew that she should be out hunting, trying to gather enough food to keep the ever-shrinking community fed, but after the helicopter went down a few hours ago, she got put on snipe duty. Her commands were easy: if it isn't alive shoot it. If they aren't from this community shoot them. No exceptions. At only 19 years of age the weight of having to take another human life was now a reality and she didn't like having to contemplate putting a living, breathing, person in her crosshairs.

Her eyes spanned the dead landscape, lingering for a moment on the black barked, leafless trees that surrounded their encampment. With not much imagination at all they looked like skeletal hands reaching up from the blanketed ground, stretching towards heaven to infect the good souls, that had left this wretched earth, with their disease and filth. Her thoughts went to her father, the summer, and having to run away while those things dragged him down and....She couldn't finish the thought. Suddenly the world around her looked like a painting that had been left out in the rain, swirls and waves distorted everything, until she closed her eyes, forcing the tears to run hot trails down her frozen cheeks.

With a gloved hand she wiped away the tingle on the tip of her nose, then checked to see if anyone saw. No one did. With her vision cleared she swept back over the desolate world outside, looking for a target. She found one. She found a few, no doubt rustled up by the opening and closing of the gate and the car that had left. The scope on top of her Remington 30-06 went to her eye, the red cross, vivid against the snow and the things, themselves, found the first head. The homemade silencer made a whisper of the shot and the slug made a mess of the zombie's head. Quickly and silently she caught the shell as it crept out of the chamber while she slid the bolt back with patience and precision. She found out the hard way they could hear a shell drop, even from twenty meters away. In a few minutes the eight dead things that had shambled out of the woods were nothing more than red smears on the porcelain white.

A row of clips sat upon the window ledge she looked out of. She didn't have any kind of disorder that made her put them in such a perfect row, but it did help to pass the time. She sipped at her barely warm cocoa and reloaded the freshly spent clip, placing it at the end and moving up the others, all filling in small indents in the snow. Boredom was nothing new. Boredom in this world, though, could get you killed. So she fought it with menial tasks, cleaning her 9 millimeter pistol and making sure the magazine ejected smoothly. She sniffed again, wiping away more tingles at the tip of her nose. She had to stay up there until the rescue team came back. It could take days.

She didn't have much room to wiggle about, but she made the effort. With a big sigh of relief as her stiff muscles had gotten just a taste of movement she settled back down in her tiny hammock type chair. She glanced at the community to her back, and all was well, it was when she looked back out to the road that surprise threatened to make her choke on her cold cocoa. There was a V formation of zombies heading towards them. At least thirty or forty of them. They didn't seem to changing course, they were coming for this community, like they probably had many others before. She slammed on the button that was rigged to an alarm system some computer guy built for them. Red lights lit the compound and hushed orders were passed along, the still community was now silently bustling for the impending attack.

The horde was a ways out, a good hundred and fifty to two hundred yards, enough to tell the numbers, but not close enough for detail. Chelsea brought her rifle up, took a deep breath and let it out slow as her finger squeezed. There was no need for stealth, now, her bolt flew open and closed like a veteran shooter. Each time her weapon jumped a head exploded into gore and red mist. A thought nagged her as she dropped her first clip and slammed in the next: 'Why are they in a V formation? They've never done that before.' Without thinking she aimed at the point at the front of the heard and what she saw jolted her: a young man was jogging ahead of the hoard, swaying left and right from exhaustion. His head was down, but there was no doubt he was alive.

Suddenly she realized this man's life was in her hands, he needed her, and if she didn't help him he'd end up just like her father. She had to do, now, what she couldn't do months ago. She had to save him. Through the glass and inch from her face she saw a rotted hand reach for his shoulder. She turned it's head into mush. She gritted her teeth and swore to herself that he would make it to these gates. Even if she had to go outside the wall and carry him. Soon other silenced rifles began to thin out the herd, dropping ghoul after ghoul, but no bullet coming near the young man. Less than 10 zombies and the young man made it to the red zone, fifty feet from the front door, and Chelsea had just spent her last bullet. She dropped her rifle against the edge of the window and ran down her tiny set of stairs.

Her snow pants and jacket made it hard to be as quick as she wanted to be, but she tried, anyways. She found herself yelling at the top of her lungs to open the door at the guard, Gary, but he wouldn't budge. She brought her pistol up and aimed it at his head, ordering him to back up. She hefted the steel bar herself and pulled it open. The last of the ghouls was down and the young man with long hair, covered in blood, his jacket torn like his pants, stood with his arms up, clouds of breath huffing out. He was trying to catch his breath, but managed, "I'm....I'm not bit! My name is M!" Chelsea didn't realize she was running towards him, towards the idea that other people were alive out there.

He dropped his pack and his pistol, which was empty, anyway and stared at her. She suddenly got very self conscious and stopped running as she holstered her own pistol, just in time to stop before him. She was a bit winded herself, but she tried her best to smile, "Hi. My name is Chelsea. You said your name is M, right?" He nodded, but his eyes kept darting over her shoulder to the other snipers that had the same orders as her, but she kept herself between them and him as she took his hand and started walking him into the encampment, his bag dragged with her other hand. "Welcome." It was the only thing she could think to say as they crossed the threshold. They were greeted with protests to another being brought in.

Chelsea could only level her blue eyes as best she could at her co-inhabitants as she spoke, "We're not animals. And we're alive. So is he. If we don't take him in then our name for this place is a lie." One by one people backed off and finally M asked her before they went on, "What's the name for this place?" Chelsea turned and could only smile as she looked up into his exhausted and stained face, "We call this place Hadley's Hope." She was confused as he started chuckling, and figured that exhaustion had caught up to him as he fell to his knees and then sat on the floor, laughing the whole time. She had to ask, "What's so funny?" He looked up at her, his eyes brimming with tears, "I found hope. In a dead world. I found hope." His smile looked so out of place, but she could only return it, in kind.

The Blade Of The Princess: Final Chapter

Days passed since K’anda had fallen down a hole that was a portal to a dead world. She’d stopped walking with a limp by the time she’d rejoined the main road, following it to her destination: the village of Vit’ae. She reached the great gates just as the sun began to sink from the sky, bruising the horizon with its exit. Two giant faces of a mountain, carved out to house the giant wooden doors, stood to each side of her. As she approached, shouts, calls and all sorts of movement sprung to life to allow her safe passage. With a well-practiced groan that made the ears ache, the magnificent monuments adorned with polished brass and workings of the name of the city, itself, began to part.

Behind them stood a testament to consumerism that was nothing short of breathtaking. A market, twice the size of her kingdom, lived and breathed and moved with purpose. As far as K’anda’s golden eyes could see, there were shops, inns, taverns, trading posts, callers, and preachers of a long-dead religion. The princess of Zhu’ul could barely believe it all. Women of all manner of dress roamed the safe streets, none paying heed to the opening or closing of the gates, most with servants in tow. Poor women had ropes tied from their rags to the necks of their slaves, while the more financially blessed ones had things like fine gold chains attached to ornate leather collars.

Smoke, smells and lanterns filled with fire lighting the whole city overwhelmed the rest of the senses. Burning pitch and cooking meat wafted through the loud streets as K’anda pushed forward, seeking the middle of the town: the slave auction. Commerce never ceased; not at any time of day or night. Although she was dead tired from her journey, the princess knew that the sooner she began conducting her business, the sooner she could be away from the noise in which she’d been thrust.

The giant market - that stretched the entirety of the chasm left in the mountains, themselves - was built like a circle. In the middle was the auction block and circle of testing. That was her destination. K’anda moved her sore legs, ignoring peddlers who shoved charms, armor and weapons at her, promising immortality and the ability to slay any and all beasts with one fell swoop. All she did was smile in response, not acknowledging any of them. As she got closer to the epicenter, the spectators went from sparse to standing-room-only as an auction began.

Upon a giant stage taller than K’anda, a woman wearing a leather vest and linen pants held a whip in one hand and a ledger in the other. Next to her were three fine specimens of men, all tall and muscular, chained together by the neck. Numbers were called out as the bidding reached a fever pitch; women in the crowd were gnashing teeth and throwing curses at one another, like they were fighting for the best cut at a butcher’s shop. But those being sold were not for a princess. Then K’anda saw her: Mistress Holtz, self-proclaimed queen of the auction square, commanding almost all the slave trade, and sorting the fodder from the prizes worthy of a princess. Tired feet made a beeline for the woman in charge.

Mistress Holtz stood a good foot shorter than K’anda. Her hair was done up in ringlets, face painted in the latest style, sporting a dress packed to the seams with frill and pomp that hung loosely upon her thin frame. In her dainty hands, lay an ornate rod of hard maple adorned with a gold and silver handle. A fine gold chain swayed between the mistress and her man, half the age of the woman reaching her late 50s. The barefoot man was thin, and dressed in a simple shirt and shorts. He was decorated with new and fading bruises bviously dealt from the rod his mistress carried. None of this concerned the princess of Zhu’ul, for she was here on business.

Holtz tore her aged eyes away from the auction block just in time to catch K’anda moving toward her. “Ah, Princess K’anda! Is it finally time for you to pick a mate?” Her tone was snobby and carried her pomp. “Yes it is, Mistress Holtz. And I’ve traveled a long and weary mile. When can I begin the process?” The imperious woman smiled and bowed her head, “Well, Princess, as soon as you’d like. And you came at an extraordinary time. Another princess has come, too, to choose a mate. So we will be having a grand spectacle… now that you’re here, of course.” K’anda did not return the smile. She knew that this meant a new set of games for the slaves to play.

“I’ve no stomach for ceremony, Mistress Holt,” K’anda said. “I’d like to choose my mate and go on my way. If that suits you, that is.” K’anda smiled insincerely and the woman picked up on the tone. “But of course, dear Princess. The holds are this way, if you’d follow me. Pick up the pace, Anry!” Quick as her aged arms allowed, she cracked the rod across her man’s face, pulling the chain and collar taut. As she turned to lead, the man didn’t even reach up to comfort the new bruise as he turned and nodded. The princess following the pair ground her teeth and hid her disgust as they trekked to the higher priced pens.

It was dark when K’anda entered the market in the niche of the mountains, and it grew even later as she walked behind Mistress Holtz and Anry. Thoughts played slowly, like a bard’s stringed instrument, of how her mother loved her father, that taboo and of how the impossible existed between them. She remembered smiles and companionship. And how when the palace would quiet, her mother would remove her father’s collar in their bed chamber and kiss his neck gently. Love was possible. She hoped that one day, she, too, would love her mate. Near midnight they reached their destination.

Anry stopped sharply behind Holtz, so much so that K’anda nearly knocked him over when she absent-mindedly ran into him. Before the princess could apologize, a chiding of ‘Clumsy oaf’ was growled and another crack from the rod came, this time on the other side of his face. Torches were being lit in their newly arrived presence to show off the stock, and Holtz turned to her customer. “Here we are, Princess. The best I have to offer. Please, take your time.” With a grand gesture, the woman pulled back a leather curtain and ushered in K’anda.

To the surprise of the princess of Zhu’ul, it didn’t stink. It wasn’t dark or dismal. In fact, it was rather clean. The stalls themselves were huge, numbering four in total, with bars between the observer and the men. Though the spaces between said bars were wide enough for even the broadest shouldered one of them to slip through, none even dared to try. They knew better. The spaces were there as windows to look at the merchandise unabated. Standards that her mother had instilled in her ran through K’anda’s head as she walked by each stall, her golden eyes taking in each man carefully. At times, her gift came forward and helped her perception. By the third stall, she’d given up almost all hope, settling for the fact that she’d have to wait for the next batch.

But there, in the fourth stall, a pair of eyes caught hers, and stopped her breath in her throat. Deep purple eyes sat in a tanned face that was as intense as the glare it wore. She peered into those eyes and nearly lost herself, having to force her gaze away as she took in the rest of the man. He was large, much larger than her, and even more so than most of the men around him, though he sat crouched in a corner, shrouded in a cloak made of tattered and torn pieces of black cloth that hung off his broad shoulders. Long, black, wavy hair that curled here and there fell from his head. Before she could think she pointed and spoke, “You. Step forward.” His gaze never wavered, but he pretended not to notice her command.

The Mistress’s voice came suddenly from beside K’anda, “Oh. You don’t want that one, Princess. He’s diseased and scrawny .” The words shook her out of her concentration and she looked at the pompous woman, “Describe that slave to me.” At first, the woman tripped on her words then came forth with a sentence. “Well. He’s...skinny. And his skin is covered in lesions. He’s pale and dirty.” K’anda’s eyes went back to the man and she sent forth a bit of her power and nearly gasped when it neared the man. The air around him was nearly aflame with his own power, the glamor he wore to make himself seem less than what he was. She knew in that instant: he possessed the gift of magic. Holtz spoke again, “Surely, you wouldn’t be interested in such a...waste of fle-” K’anda’s royal temper flared, “You mean to advise me on my choice of men and possible mate? You deem your words worthy enough to question mine, Mistress Holtz?” Golden eyes came to rest upon the thin woman and she blanched at the fury and cutting nature of the tone.

“Why...no! Of course not! Forgive me! I lost myself for a moment...Uh….slave! Stand at once and present yourself!” This time the man obeyed. K’anda watched as he unfolded himself, standing nearly a foot taller than her, his tanned skin stretched tight against muscles that looked hard as steel. The scars, some fresh and some old, moved with him as he strode forward, closing the distance in two strides. The Princess of Zhu’ul was in awe of the man, not knowing what the others saw, but in total admonition of his dangerous nature, herself. “What is your name, slave?” K’anda’s voice had not cooled, but neither had his eyes. “Xelga’dis, Mistress.” His voice was deep and as strong as his physical appearance, and yet it carried intelligence and power with it, as well. “Your form is appealing to me, Xelga’dis. What think you of mine?” For the first time his eyes left hers and moved quickly up and down her body. She could feel her face heat with the action.

“Forgive me, Mistress. But you are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever set eyes upon.” Despite her power, training and all her abilities, K’anda felt very much exposed at that moment. Seeking to put herself back in control, she drew her sword, the steel singing as it cleared the scabbard, and she presented the handle to him, “Do you think yourself worthy of carrying my blade tomorrow at the trials?” Near every living thing within range of hearing the weapon being drawn cowered away, including Holtz, but not him. He took the handle and held the blade up to his face, turning the instrument between his long and powerful fingers, examining the weight and the balance. “Mistress. I do not believe I am.” He offered the handle back to K’anda and bowed his head. For a moment she let her eyes linger on his hands and fingers; flashes of things that she would never discuss aloud played in her head, but she returned her attention to his face. She studied him for a while before she spoke. “Yes, you do. And you will. In the morrow, you will carry this blade in my name. And you will be my mate.” His eyes came up to meet hers, though his head stayed bowed, “If the Princess wishes.” There was the ghost of a smile on his lips. One she returned. “I do.”

He bowed his final subjugation to her will as she took back her blade, him returning to his corner, her standing proud and tall before the cell. She watched him, like a cat eyes a mouse, all of him, the way he moved, his muscular form, the way his eyes watched her back, and it all made her feel a few degrees warmer than the air around her. As they exchanged one last look, he smiled, a tight, half smile, with only half his mouth, and she returned it, letting her imagination drift again. She turned to the short woman, “I need a place to stay for the night. I expect you will have a room ready for me by the time I reach the pagoda, Mistress Holtz.” Several agreements and curtsies later, Anry was sent forward to make preparations for the Princess. K’anda felt new feelings well up inside her. Things she’d never felt before.

In the cozy room, four times larger than any wayward shack she’d spent many a night in lately, K’anda’s armor was peeled off her skin, and underwear cast off, as she strode toward a large tub. Steaming water had been brought in, but it had already cooled. Since she desired a bath more than she wanted to yell at her host, with a wave of her hand, her power sprang forth and heated the tub to her liking. She sank in, letting her days of travel melt away and be replaced with her encounter with Xelga’dis. She imagined his powerful hands and what they would feel like on her bare flesh, or how his lips would taste. Slowly she let herself get lost in the fantasy and soon her hands mimed the ones in her vivid visions. The tub was barely lukewarm by the time she climbed out, and she was suddenly grateful for the privacy of her own wash room. She laid down upon the soft mattress and was asleep in moments.

Noon found K’anda sitting at the forefront of the stadium, set prominently in the middle of the mountain town. Nearly ten feet below was the arena’s earthen floor, girdled by giant, thick walls of wood, decorated with iron gates here and there. Bells sounded the hour, and then Mistress Holtz stood up, her chair a story higher than everyone else’s, a new dress and hairdo to help set her position of authority. She spoke loudly to counteract all the noise of the women of the town shuffling in to get their seats. “Here, today, we have a treat. A rare treat. Two princesses, one from Zhu’ul, one from Tchottle, have chosen mates at the same time. So we will see not one, but TWO feats of proving today.” The crowd cheered with a glee that K’anda had never heard in her life. “We all know the rules. For their mates to go home with their princesses, they must survive the trials. And now, let the games … BEGIN!” Holtz sat down to the roar of the colosseum.

Across from K’anda sat the other princess, not armored like her, but in a frilly blue dress, rented slaves holding shade over her and a venomous look in her eyes. Raven hair down to her back was done perfectly, face painted to highlight sharp features, with fair skin and small lips making her look much younger than she really was. K’anda let her gaze drift to the arena as she saw Xelga’dis and the other chosen mate brought out and their chains released. The sickle blade of Tchottle was tossed in the dirt at the same time that K’anda’s sword was, each at the feet of the chosen. The other mate was tall and also muscular, with a shaved head and wearing nothing but a pair of leather shorts. Xelga’dis was still shrouded in his black, tattered cape that looked like crow’s feathers from this distance. Each weapon was retrieved as another gate opened, and the whole crowd quieted. A bellowing roar tore from the blackness beyond the raised iron bars.

The Kerroc stepped out, ducking its full height under the nine-foot-high gate. Green, scaly skin moved easily with the mass of muscle beneath it. Razor claws decorated four digits on the end of sinewy arms, matching the ones on its feet. Clear rivulets of saliva dripped freely from the elongated jaws lined with long, sharp teeth. Black eyes burned above a squat head, supported by a thick neck. Iron bars slammed closed, barely missing the tip of the tail trailing behind the creature, cutting deep swaths into the white dirt floor. It roared again, and then locked its glassy midnight eyes upon the two men sharing the arena. As the last of the bellow rumbled out, the thing charged the two humans, heavy footsteps shaking the wooden rafters. K’anda’s eyes widened with amazement, wonder, and most of all: fear.

K’anda watched with the rapt attention of a child, staring as the man with the sickle spread his beefy arms, and shouted challenges at the creature. Xelga’dis stepped back a few paces, keeping a distance between him and the beast. The monster’s attention focused on the shouting one, missing the man in the black cloak as he quickly circled around to the side of it. The bald one charged forward, screaming and swinging his weapon. The curved blade caught the Kerroc’s bottom jaw as it snapped at the man, deflecting its head for a split second. Xelga’dis saw an opening, and quickly closed in and buried the sword deep into its side. Another cry sprang forth and the giant arms swung, missing the bald one, but caught the black cloak that shrouded Xelga’dis in his glamour, tearing it to shreds as it ripped away.

An apocalyptic crescendo of lightning and thunder joined a ring of power that pushed air, dirt and debris out from the center that was Xelga’dis, standing in the arena of now flowing blood. He stood like a pillar of power, his illusion shattered, the force of what had just sprung forward even knocking the Kerroc back a few paces. K’anda’s eyes feasted on her chosen. He was beautiful and primal: broad shoulders and back, scars criss-crossing here and there, tense muscles, a dark glare, with her blade in his hand.

However, the battle waited no longer. The creature turned back to the still-suffering mate of the princess of Tchottle, and this time the man wasn’t able to avoid it. With a heavy snap of its jaws, the giant creature caught the soft middle of the bald man, closing quick and hard, spilling blood to and fro as it thrashed. The crowd responded with deafening cheers.

With the creatures’ attention on the meal in its jaws, Xelga’dis used the momentary pause. With speed hard to track with the naked eye, he moved in and slashed at the monster’s body, aiming for weak points. Tendons, muscles, soft tissues; all were severed without hesitation, viscera and intestines spilling forth. The body of the other man still in its maw, the creature fell to all fours, the damage that had been dealt taking its quick and sudden toll. The surviving mate didn’t allow a moment to pass. He hopped atop the crocodilian monstrosity and quickly buried K’anda’s blade through the thick skull, killing it instantly. A death rattle and a huff of white dust later, Xelga’dis stood above the grisly scene, victorious. The crowd’s roar filled with whispers of magic and its uses, and the fact that he was, indeed, a gifted man. K’anda could only smile as the competing princess huffed and stood, making a quick exit.

K’anda couldn’t help the smug feeling coursing through her, and stood, clapping and joining in on the cheers from the women next to her. She barely noticed when Mistress Holtz stood and announced a quick break from the festivities. K’anda beamed with pride as other women passed her and touched her shoulder with congratulations and well wishes, so much that she hadn’t noticed Holtz’s hand on her shoulder. “Princess K’anda, we must talk before the next round of the trial.” The statement was said with a mix of nervousness and opportunity ringing through every syllable. Not a half hour later, the Princess of Zhu’ul stood in the office of the one running the show. Each wall was decorated with commendations and letters of thanks, to help boost the sales of the slaves. And behind a giant desk littered with papers sat Mistress Holtz.

“Congratulations on your mate’s victory. It seems Tchottle will be without a breeding stock this year. Now, as a matter of price, I think we must delve into the subject as quickly and fully as possible. Please sit.” K’anda stood, facing the aging woman with nothing but contempt and ire. “Price, Mistress? I didn’t know that such a thing was up for change, due to a fact like a simple victory.” Holtz spread her arms in an appeasing manner. “Well, Princess, we’ve never actually discussed the price. And with such a new trait and … appearance of your chosen...” K’anda’s tempered flared and she’d had enough of the game, “Do not attempt to blindside me, Mistress! Just because I am young does not mean that I am ignorant or uneducated. I will not pay for traits you didn’t know were there. And so, you will get your original asking price, but, just to end this discussion before it angers me any further, I’ll double it so Xelga’dis can get on with this farce of a trial and I may return home!” Mistress Holtz was more than shocked at the outburst, her wrinkled jaw hanging open, lips quivering to find words. Before the woman could retort, K’anda stalked out of the office, using her power to control the wind to slam the door hard enough force to crack the frame.

K’anda returned to her seat far before Holtz, with Anry, her manslave, accompanying her, showing a few new bruises shining brightly in the afternoon sun. In the arena below, Xelga’dis was escorted back to the center of the arena, sword tossed at his feet. Mistress Holtz stood and announced, “And now...THE RING OF STEEL!” Again the women attending kicked up excitement and noise, cheers and screams. All of the arena’s metal doors shot up and out poured more than fifty men, with shields, armor and swords. Xelga’dis stood mute, watching without interest, kneeling down casually and scooping up a handful of white dirt, He rubbed it into his palms, in preparation for all the blood about to stain the blade and into his grip. As he stood, there could be no doubt of what kind of man he was to K’anda.

The men, safe behind their steel armor, were hunch-backed, hiding their stomachs and chests, shields held before them in fear of an impending attack. And there stood Xelga’dis: tall, chest out, wearing black shorts to just above his knees, K’anda’s blade in his big hand. The air was thick with tension, each of the fifty combatants measuring their would-be slaughter. One man screamed and charged, breaking the silence, running at full speed toward Xelga’dis. The armored one took a giant, reckless swing at his target and was quickly cut down, blood spraying and tainting the white sand. More poured forth, their battle cries becoming as loud as the crowd sitting above, and they all began to fall before the dark man with the mass of wavy hair and K’anda’s blade in his hand.

There was no grace to him, no fluid movement. He was a hard line drawn through the soft and waning circle of bodies closing in on him. Each cut was brutal, solid, and cleaving, driving through the lines. Each time he turned, he answered a new threat and quickly ended it. Soon, though, the numbers became overwhelming, and he knew it. Wildly swung blades got closer and closer to him, while his body clashed with others, knocking them off balance, all closer than any fighter would deem acceptable. A blade bit his flesh, then another, and pain took over. K’anda could see how the battle was going to go in very short order. The yellowing sky was lit blue for a second, making all but the princess of Zhu’ul shield their eyes. Xelga’dis stood with an arm stretched out, and blue lightning danced from his shoulder to his wrist. The battle had just turned.

Without pause, the wielder of the blue lighting began cutting more opponents down, sending bolts out to make men in their armor explode, like sacks of red liquid dropped from a tall building. Bolt after bolt, swinging cut after another, the number of opponents fell. The last of the armored men deduced the battle was futile and threw down his sword and shield, running for the iron gate. With a bit of power, Xelga’dis lifted a blade from the ground and launched it at the fleeing man. The sword found its target and buried itself to the hilt, knocking its target forward and off his feet.

Once more in the middle of the arena, Xelga’dis stood triumphant, panting with effort and exhaustion. A sweep of his dark eyes surveyed the chaos in front of him, then settled upon hers. She felt her face heat as they shared a look; a ghost of a smile came to his face, the same kind of smile appeared on hers. His big arm shook her blade, sluicing the blood off, then he held it up, and upon a cloud of air the blade floated effortlessly to her, from whence she plucked it. She saluted with it, before returning it to the sheath at her hip.

Now dusk had come and gone, painting the fading day with its mirage of dying colors, but K’anda cared not for spectacle. She paced her room; large as it was, it seemed tiny, a prison cell. Her mind was busy with her mate, and what they’d done to him. Her armor, freshly polished, sat in the corner, with her boots. Her skin was clean, her hair brushed. She was anxious. A knock came that startled her so badly she let out a tiny yip. She ran to the door to see three guards and her mate. He had finally been delivered. As she stood there and the three other slave men disappeared, she felt suddenly exposed wearing nothing but her underthings. Xelga’dis stood tall and proud, shoulders back and a small smile upon his lips. With a flourish of her hand and a silent invitation, he stepped in, ducking the door frame. They smiled at each other for a long moment, taking each other in, her in her underwear and him in nothing but his black shorts.

Silently she took his hand, closing the door, and led him to the bedroom. She found her voice after placing her hand upon his hard, muscular chest. “Now. We must….finalize….you being my mate…” Her golden eyes met his with meaning. Slowly his thick, calloused hand found her cheek and with a gentle movement, his lips met hers. Passionate, heavy and wanton, they went on, each other’s hands finding new places to explore. She tore away with a look on her face and feelings she was unfamiliar with, but she wanted them, and breathlessly she spoke. “Do not be gentle with me. For I will not be with you.” She steeled her will and body and so did he. Together they hit the bed with heavy need, her underthings ripped asunder and his shorts burned off in a blaze of magic fire. It would be near dawn before they fell asleep in each other’s arms, talking of their pasts and wants for the future, both falling deeper in love as the seconds passed. Nothing was gentle during that night except for their tender embrace, lying together under soft blankets with the golden sun leaking into the room and coloring everything in its gentle, yellow glow.

Near noon and with little sleep, the giant gates closed behind K’anda and her new mate Xelg’adis, bidding them farewell with a loud metallic clank of the locks. Both smiled contently as they walked, parts of them sore and other parts simply bruised and tired, but in whole satisfied. Near the setting of the sun, the sky darkening into purple and pinks and reds, they found their first wayward home. As they both disrobed to share the tiny bunk inside, the princess of Zhu’ul smiled at her new love and asked a simple question after the door was locked. “Have you ever heard of the city of the dead below the earth?” Xelga’dis gave her a puzzled look and answered ‘No’. She beamed brighter and asked the last question before their new life and adventures with each other began: “Would you like to?”

Let Them Dance (Original short)

Michael walked through the club, feeling the pounding bass coming from giant speakers at the other end of the establishment. Lights flashed and strobed along with the heavy beats as highs squealed and lows churned the bodies around him into a dancing frenzy. None of them knew the danger that lurked there, between them, the immortals of bloodlust. Vampires. He was one, too, but his goal was clear: Kill them all. Or as many as he could. Seven months ago he was set up. An old man begging to be released from misery, a high payout for his family, and all that doomed a vampire who vehemently refused to join a house.

Vampire politics were much the same as humans: corruption, backbiting, infighting, betrayal, and secret alliances. All of which kept houses up and running, and on top of the business of selling blood and shelter to those that were outside of their inner circles. Michael had avoided it for 437 years and now he found himself at the epicenter of a scandal that reached very high up into the ranks of several houses. He would not stand for it. He had thought that the humans were the ones waging war and thus swore a blood oath against them, not knowing the true nature of what he had been involved in.

Now he walked amongst them as they turned drunken and drugged eyes away to ignore what they didn't consider a threat. But he was. The lion amongst the wolves, the shark swimming through the piranhas, a king cobra slithering through the nest of vipers. Soon the mayhem would begin. Soon the screams would come. Soon death would walk with the immortals and stay his scythe no more. 'Let them dance,' he thought to himself, allowing a gift of mercy, for now, before it all began. He did, too. He let the rhythm take him, closed his eyes and let his senses, already heightened, be carried to the heavens by feeling and a need to move, alone.

He thrust his hands in the air, moved his hips, rocked back and forth, and swayed with the music that pumped forth. The club, numbering near 200 occupants, seemed to move with him. None saw the clips full of silver bullets tipped with garlic nitrate that lined the back of his belt. Not one noticed the twin pistols dancing along with him in the holsters beneath his coat, both set for automatic fire. The blade that nestled close to his hip went unnoticed by all. Michael's eyes opened and saw the spray-painted banner behind the DJ that read 'Reign In Blood,' and thought it so fitting. It was time.

He stilled in the middle of the dance floor, his violet eyes picking out each and every one of his targets, oblivious to the violence about to be wrought. He closed his eyes once more and smiled, enjoying the calm. Music gave way to gunfire. Gunfire gave way to screams. Screams gave way to burning after Michael drew and started firing, the specialized bullets reducing their recipients to a pile of smoldering ash and orange sparks that flitted through the air, changing colors with the lights as they continued to flux.

The pistols jumped in his hands, as he screamed with fury and glee. Blood sprayed and ash flew. Many begged for their lives, and Michael did not give them quarter. Others tried attacking, but he was too fast for them. Most of them were fledglings, barely discovering their abilities, trying to take down a seasoned hunter with all of his senses and abilities trained and in line. So many tried to flee, but the doors were sealed; a lock-in rave, is what promised their doom. Vampires. The pinnacle of the food chain. Now just fodder for the predator who preyed upon them.

Clips dropped and were replaced as he kept firing. They fought back, many piling atop him as he tried to continue his wanton slaughter. Only then did the blade he carried cry out to taste flesh, too. And he obliged. An arc of the weapon felled enough to get the weight off of him as he dropped his pistols; for now, they were not done singing. Claws and fangs came at him like spears and daggers, but he was faster. Michael moved like rushing water sluicing itself between still rocks, lightning cutting through a million rain drops. Now over half the club was dead and burning.

He made his way back to his twin pistols and picked them up, quieting the blade, and allowed hot iron to again herald death. It felt like eternity since it had begun, but the song playing silently in the background had just finished fading away. He took out a note, dropped it upon the now empty dance floor and walked to a window, letting himself out. The first blow was struck. Now the war amongst the clans and houses would ignite into a conflagration that would burn down the vampire ranks.

Michael had one last thought, as he looked back over his shoulder at the chaos that had just quieted, regarding the strings he was tying to certain individuals in this plot. And he smiled as it crept across his mind, 'Let them dance.'

Hail To The King (Original Short)

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

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.

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.