Vamp Love

[Vyvian Blackthorne]

This is a story a wrote that was never published. My writing is not shown widely, but I think it wouldn't hurt to share my own work.

Vamp Love
SHE waits for her victims to come present. The beautiful cemeteries’ cold mist filled the spot on her pale face. She wishes not to kill; but more to love. She cannot love, for what she is a specimen of human off spring-yet to be discovered by the technology unknown. Behind the tree in the graveyard she waits, and finally, she spots a boy. The boy was about the age in his mid teens, approaching adulthood; he visits his father’s grave in mourning. Alcoholism killed him, and he continues to weep, so many people do not understand him. She watches, clad in black as he is, but she had the feeling at first sight that he was different. Yes he, visiting his fathers fameless grave. It had been there for years. How she knows this, she reads the blood of humans with her mind, yet not the same as tasting the delicious blood.
Oh no, this was something she needed to live.
She felt for this certain boy, for he was not afraid to face the darkness and embrace it. Of course, not evil, but just the side everyone has that is understanding, passionate and appreciative for such morbid yet truth-ful things. He wore, how beautiful he was, make-up on his face. Pale face and lipsticks with partially smudged eyes; he was a galore of beauty and truth. Yet he faced his melancholy problems and confronted his father, who lies before him in a fateful grave.
“Father,” he said. “We were always close, I felt, we were always close and we were always together. I brought you flowers for your grave. They’re grey, but I know you would’ve liked them.”
His father was a man that may have been rough, yet he was kind and loving underneath. It was that side, that understanding side he wished mostly to get out of him. During the end of his life, they tried to stay close to each other-his father being supportive of his interests and all-the boy rejoiced him greatly for this. He was, of course, alone and single. With his lucks and charms he never made it well and even when he tried to socialize with those that shared qualities as himself-he never had the true guts to confront them to make an everlasting relationship.
Overall, he was fine at where he was, though he still had his lusts, and his moments. Now the woman, who continued to stay behind a twisted tree, watched him finish his monologue to his father, shedding tears that drip like blood-slowly but majestically.
He got up from his position with the flowers he held on the grave, he walked away and yet she followed this boy, this man to which she lusted.
The cemeteries beauty stayed with the fog, she needed a victim yet she did not find this boy to be so, he was young and clever. He was dark and different, he was not someone who cared about fitting and conforming into society; all he did was be himself. This is something she loved in him. She saw that he stood out from the rest, not afraid to be himself. Perhaps there were others that shared qualities like him-but there were! I how she wished to embrace them all!
Yet this was her first encounter with this beautiful boy, she fled toward into the beautiful darkness ready to feel her love. Her heart ached, it told her to jump on the boy, and oh she wished to. She stayed close behind-to find out who this boy was.
He began to speak. “Why am I alone? I wish there were more people like me in this fucking community. There’s no one like me here because all they really rely on is unrealistic and arrogant positive thinking. It’s sick...” he said, remarking with a tear. She agreed.
Trotting again he walked into the streets, ignoring the cars and the people who shunned him. He knew how horrible and misunderstanding the society was, how he had to hide what he truly embraced and act what they called ‘normal’. What is normal? Nothing’s normal! He thought again and again as he passed the streets. Two small children stopped in the grey mist and stared. They licked luscious ice cream snobbery, perhaps they were youthful. Seeing this man overwhelmed them. He was dressed beautifully in a poet’s shirt and black. “Wow, who is that?” One asked to the other.
“He’s weird,” the other remarked, then with a snobby and spoiled attitude she said, “I bet he had to rob someone’s grave to get them-since he’s POOR! P-O-O-R!”
How insignificant today’s children were. They were taught what they thought was RIGHT and WRONG (as they labeled so rudely as FACTS-when they were clearly theories) only being brainwashed and isolated from individuals who disagree with society’s immoral ways.
The boy turned his head, a tear dropped yet they shed no sympathy. His partially spiked hair began to feel wet as the rain poured. The mother of the children appeared, grabbing both of them by the groin (resulting in them shrieking) and pulling them into the fog. He knew they didn’t mean it; it wasn’t them speaking but the thoughts of their hateful and mean-spirited parents. This was something that was clearly wrong with people-just people in general. The mysterious and beautiful mistress of darkness followed him even in the streets (without being noticed) lusting for him more and more.
She imagined her with him. How sensual the romance would be. They would touch; her breasts would be embraced by a youth among so many beautifully understanding people. She would with him eternally, not intentionally wanting him to become the supernatural and yet unique creature she is but just be with him forever, in love immortality. Death is a sweet thing, yet his soul shall roam again in another body. Embracing death, her fantasies ended; and she realized that she must go speak to the one she loved now.
She hid behind another, darker tree, but no more would she bottle her recent emotions up. She wanted to start slow with him, to know him, to love him, to feel him and his pain (though she already clearly knew through telekinesis). She was clearly behind him now, in the deeper streets and entering a valley. No one would stop her, not even if her heart had told her to for this was her function. How he did not know that someone was attracted to him, and though it was only for moments had she fallen in love with him-it was like years for her century-old heart.
The alley became deeper and thinner. The boy took a deep breath, she knew something was wrong. She sprung up into the top of the surrounding buildings and watched him fall to the ground in mourning. He wept briefly, not wanting society, this scummy, horrid society, to see him weep. He did not care what others thought-yet with so much tension and discrimination-those scars would never be removed.
He wiped his tears and went back up, continuing to walk in the alley. There she continually stalked, on top of the building-how she wished to love him! As she was ready to not feast on his blood, but of his heart, she realized something.
If she flew down, she’d die.
They could not fly, they could jump higher than any man could to reach the stars, yet they could not fly. She remembered what her father (and sometimes lover) had explained to her.
If we, the creatures of the night, flew down from such a height-not only would there be impact but exposure to our veins...attempting flight is simply foolish for us.
That short speech ran through her head. She could not catch him in time for as she realized this-he had disappeared. No longer was this boy, this mysterious boy, this different and beautifully darker boy would she see again. So many feelings she had for him, yet so many he would never know. He would continue living the way he does, as she would, but she would go on living knowing that this was her only chance at love. How many feelings she briefly felt were never to be known by a mortal as he-but to an eternal dark mistress like her. She stayed on top of the old and abandoned building (two words to describe her) until night fell. Then she slept, with tears of blood and water drooling down her retina.

That was more than two thousand years ago. The protagonist in the story is clearly I-and the supporting role is clearly the boy. The boy who had the courage to be different and be himself-something I wished all mortals valued. They do not deserve to live, but there are some beautiful people in that world who are forced to suffer society’s intolerant ways. I remain in my lair, thinking of the boy and how I could have loved him. I still imagine life with him, and then once I do it is hard for me to get out of such fantasies. My emotions for him will never be known, and once I, the Vamp, become a deceased soul, many will forget who I was-for all I knew had perished. So I write my story, telling you every detail and only dream that it will be said, told, and embraced amongst the world.

[HumanePain]

Very interesting Ms. Blackthorne, the perspective of the Vampire as she follows a victim become lust-object kept me intrigued.

There were some sentences however, that were difficult to follow, and thus their meaning did not quite come across clearly to me:

"SHE waits for her victims to come present."

It just sounded awkward to me. If I may suggest, it could have been written:

"SHE waits for her victims to come to her, rather than seeking them."

Another awkward sentence for me was:

"She cannot love, for what she is a specimen of human off spring-yet to be discovered by the technology unknown. "

If I understand it correctly, I think you intended to convey:

"She cannot love, for she is a specimen of human off spring that is yet to be discovered by a future technology, as yet unknown."

You also wrote that her potential victim/lover was a "boy" but then later he was a "man", and then a "boy" again. This was confusing, but perhaps you were trying to alternate his age as a boy when she thought of him as a victim, and then a man when she imagined him as her lover?

But overall, a very interesting story. Please post more!

[Vyvian Blackthorne]

Thank you for your critique. Your a very literate reviewer. The "boy/man" is a constantly reversing metamorphsis for how she views him. The Vampire is very moody, her mind ponders into places different from others of her kind-the perspective of the story is told in the same way her moods rapidly change. That was an intention. I will post more, perhaps on this same thread.

[Vyvian Blackthorne]

Here is another one I wrote awhile back (unpublished like the previous one)

Crucifying Vincent (pt. 1)
THE cruelty lies just above their heads, and several tiredly bored boys on a lazy Sunday afternoon have nothing to do. The crow of the macabre told them noon was reaching, the brief amounts of light shaded into through the windows and onto their pale faces. They sit in their normal fashion, slanted, tired, with every possible idea open for grabs.
They wait.
They have names, Jonathon, Jackson, Anthony, Belle (still a boy, but a cockney boy) and of course, Vincent. Vincent, being his dim self, sat upside down by the couch. He was partially retarded and used only half of his brains (or, just the half that was working correctly). They were all in their mid preteens and all experiencing the morbid wonders of adolescence. Present they were at Vincent’s own house, he would practically be the host every time and cater for their every whim. He could fight back, when he would protest or do something incorrectly, they would yell at him. They, belonging to no culture except that of low-style white trash, Jonathon hatched an idea-knowing that Vincent’s family was highly religious.
And with religion, came a book called eeeoouuzziii
aaaaaa eouehioouuooooooo, also known as ZE BOOK. And what Jonathon knew that a man named Hey-Zeus was given the ultimate gift of life: torture.
He was placed on what they called a large cross (or back then, just two goddamn pieces of wood in the format of that) and nailed down with the largest of technology back in the time when Allah-knows-when. Of course, these concepts were perhaps true though no one could give a true answer but a ‘theory’. Jonathon never understood this entirely, though he thought that what was called in ZE BOOK titled ‘Crucifixion’ was a great way to express his love for Vincent (an obvious note of sarcasm).
“Hey guys,” he says.
There wait is no more.
At once, all of his friends darted out slowly to feed their lustful hunger of their friends’ knowledge. They gather, like a cult or tribe, they wait for his comments to unravel themselves.
This, time, Jackson was the one to speak up; saying his lines as they went through his head the second before:
“What is it, Jon?”
Jon answers, “I have a great idea for what we can do this afternoon.”
“We hav’e nuttin to do here on dis day, tis me, me man?” Belle said.
Anthony agreed, “Right, what the hell would cure our boredom?”
And he, Jon, the superior, answers in a Biblical and majestic way (imagining as if he’s Moses himself):
“We shall crucify Vincent!”
And they clap.
* * *
As noon approaches, he hangs on the wall, tied to the gigantic cross on his families’ gigantic cross (to which they prayed to each and every day). Vincent was stripped naked except for a white towel covering his groin area. His friends surrounded him. They were dressed each in robes (bathroom robes, except for Jackson, who wore a towel on his head) and held candles in there hands. Jonathon, the leader of the pack, confronts him on the cross with his face visible underneath the sheet. He held nails in his hands unlike the others. There was a hammer on his other hand, with blood somehow smeared on it. The blood was responsible for the killing of the cat (to which they were to sacrifice along with Vincent to feed the demonic hunger) who lay in front of him with the image of a mismanaged pentagram. Jon (now to be confirmed in the text as ‘the leader’) announced, “And now-it is TIME!”
One by one, they each lit the pentagram. The fire blazed in the flammable material (which was evidently, cocaine) and it lit the sacrifice to the creature to which they worshiped. The Leader knew that one day he would be saved by him, to eternal peace and happiness he would take him. For now, this was how they were to show their gratitude toward their loving God (or Bog).
However, something went terribly wrong.
The Leader stood on a foot stool to reach the cross; he placed a nail on the palm of his hand.
“What a-a-are you doing, J-J-Jon?” Vincent asked.
“Shut up. And refer to me as The Leader.”
Vincent felt the pain, the true agony and blackness impaled down to his paw. The blood splattered from the opening. Oozing down from the palm it dripped to the sacrifice’s mouth. The fire blazed. It blazed so much it burned The Leader. He felt the agony like Vincent had, who screamed in shrill pain.
The Leader fell down from the stool and into the fire, where his flesh began to melt and blaze like the furnace-material did. He did not scream. No, screaming was for those who did not structure themselves spiritually as he did. He had no fear. He burned continually into the fire and the cross, so large-it fell down from the position it stood and along with Vincent, led itself upside down, resembling the inverted cross.
The world was silenced at that horrific moment, the sacrifice was gone and Vincent lay there with his palm partially nailed to the cross. He stared in amazement as the fire and cocaine burst suddenly into smoke and then disintegrating into the darkness, the light shone from the windows-directing toward the exact cross itself. All of the children stared in shock as Vincent lay crucified onto the cross upside down. As the light shone on the cross, more smoke appeared; and in the mist spawned a deformed figure not promoted by the known world.
He saw it move, how it moved into the darkness from the shades of light entering the windows. He stared at it in horror, the child in the front (who is commonly known as Jackson) as Vincent stared in horror and bled to death, eternalizing peace. Vincent was dead, and Jackson did not know how to treat this creature. He poked it once, then twice with his finger. For a moment no sound was made, and then it gurgled a shrieking sound of horror and shrill terror. Jackson felt the sperms leap out of his body, spilling onto the floor with pride and arrogance. The creature (to what seemed to be a deformed blob) soaked them as if he were a sponge moving to attack its victims. Jackson’s pants fell down for no given reason; this homoerotic-like feeling aroused him. The creature made this.
Jackson exposed himself in front of the spawn; it puked a sticky and foamy material.
“What happened?” Jackson said. Yet there was no answer from anyone present in that room. With Vincent bled to death, everyone was left to foresee the scene of horror and beauty.
The creature moved in a limp manner, by the third hour it was (without a doubt) that the creature was the antichrist. The antichrist (in the form of a fetus) continued to vomit on each child’s feet, showing his appreciation for resurrecting him. Belle spoke up, finally.
“What will we do with it?”
Jackson replied, “I don’t know.”
“Perhaps we should just leave it outside, so it can dissolve into the air and disintegrate back to Hell,” Anthony said. Thus, this was their final and only option.

[Vyvian Blackthorne]

2nd Part of Crucifying Vincent
* * *
Outside stood Ms Buff, an elderly and overweight woman with a strange voice. She was dressed in her Sunday clothes (just getting back from Church) and walked with her purse on her side to her home. Her habits were dangerous, for she would randomly yell at people and things she believed to be unholy. Misconceptions included that she was an alien, or a monster, maybe on the inside, beneath her so called good heart, there was only pure and true nothing. The children were familiar with her, for she went door-to-door selling cakes for the Church’s fund, she would smile but when internal conflicts would arise, she would scream and yell at any person she would come in contact with. A woman blinded by her faith from reality, she lived in a world where whatever God says, goes.
Jonathon, Anthony, and Belle were dressed in brown Boy Scout uniforms. They thought up a plan to give the creature to her, and leave her with it to do whatever she pleased. Jonathon held a bag in his hand and tried to keep the creature safe from reality. Buff citied them and tried to look friendly as she thought: Jesus would be nice to them, why can’t you?
“Hello little ones, what’s in that bag of yours?” she said with her creepy and welcoming smile.
“Hello misses, we were wondering if you would be so kind as to take this injured animal home with you,” Anthony said. Jonathon added, “It would do you good for the community.”
Gladly she said, “Well, I do love the community.”
Fuck the kids and grab their money.
She was about to lose her mind, into darkness she would drift, not knowing the beauty within such.
Ms Buff took the bag to prevent any further dis-cussion, and the children knew they were safe. The creature in the form of the antichrist gurgled and laughed sinisterly as it shook in the bag, being carried to a new location. A new spawn it thought.
Miss Buff placed the bag home as she entered her white, Christ-loving home. A home only God could love was the houses’ motto. Something that Buff was well aware of but tried not to think of was that the house was filled with ATHIESTS! ATHIESTS! a while back from the previous owners. The ATHIESTS! ATHIESTS! were people she did not clearly accept, Buff didn’t accept any different form of people. She knew that if she painted her house Church white with so called ‘nice’ colours, she would be safe from the ATHIESTS! ATHIESTS! (to which the nuns considered them to be).
The spawn gurgled in the bag, it barfed small foamy material from its own mouth-the presence of such franchise in the room. Burned it slightly, yet it knew that she had no real faith (much less common sense) therefore it could not harm him. Soon, the spawn leaped out of the bag and onto the ground. Miss Buff turned her head as she unzipped her clothes, revealing her sixty-something and droo-ping breasts. She saw that the thing in the bag, the animal had escaped its prison, without even knowing what it was. What was present in her home? Could it perhaps be something unholy? No matter how disgustingly exposed she was, Miss Buff searched the house to find what was with her. A rodent, she thought and then added: rodents aren’t holy! She finally saw on the clean white carpet, drool-like sticky material that could only be produced by perhaps a slug. Finally, Buff began to speak, not even remembering the names of little boys who gave her the bag.
“Come out wherever you are, you old pile of sticks!” she said, picking up the broom clearly visible from the kitchen. The drool trails lead to the opened garage door not far from the kitchen. Her heart pounded. What was there was beyond her, what would happen; only God would know. In preparation she shielded her eyes. She unwittingly entered the garage, not knowing what to expect or to find.
What happened next is hard to recall, for she heard noises gurgling like the unholy antichrist himself-such noises were those that terrified her to death. Sweet, sweet death.
And then everything went black and she rested in eternal peace, not knowing what exactly had gotten her.

Vincent lay dead, hanging on the wall upside down. His eyes were shut gently and half of his left hand was nailed down to the gigantic cross. The fire had burned out by then yet the deep smell of roasting, burning flesh still stayed present in the room. All of the boys had gone home to their care-free houses. Jonathon’s parents seemed not to mind of what happened to their son-they had enough problems on their own. Vincent’s parents returned home to find him in that position, both of their bodies had immediately become lifeless.
Feeling they were with their son in eternal peace, Vincent remains in the upside down (inverted) position he remains in. On a Sunday afternoon this had occurred, right after Vincent had gone to Church to learn of the meaning of life and death.

[Vyvian Blackthorne]

Here is another one. Untiteled though. Much more melancholy.

Jose was dying rapidly; he lived in a large house in on a hill top. He did not live alone as most thought, I lived with him and my lusts for him grew as his heart shrunk. He was a writer of fiction and chronicled hysteria to which I cannot even speak of, his writings hypnotized me seductively with provocative nightmares. There was a story he wrote, and I swear to this day though no one believes me, to which was about me. It was entitled “crow woman” about a young woman who caters to an old dying man to which she falls in love with.
I do not know how he found out I had feelings for him, we were much apart and though we were seemingly alone in the large house the portraits had eyes larger then those of a gecko.
I lusted each time of the beautiful night-covered with insomnia for him to call out my name:
“Charlotte...let me lay my body down toward your hands, so I can live and die peacefully in love”
-these fantasies I kept to myself (though he strangely knew my cravings for the man.)
We could not be near each other and strike a rapid conversation. Instead, we spoke together through our dreams. Such dreams we could not even share.
Oh God-how they were beautiful!
Not was he the sixty year-old wrinkled man to whom he truly was on the outside but the melancholy and passionate man that he was on the inside. One dream, I remember, involved a romantic dinner with us both floating nude in the air in a blurry but space-like background. It was truly a romantic time for both of us; it was a romance that no one could understand.
The morning that followed after I cleaned his beddings and found a clear and sticky material within it. He did not show himself but was in what he called ‘the isolation room’ that he would type his work. He did not allow me to look at them; I only read what he wanted me to read-too faithful to him to sneak the writings.
Years past and I had turned twenty one, he was enthusiastic of my own birthday for he knew he was aging, and his health was getting worse. We called a doctor over the following day and could not diagnose him with anything. However, he warned us that his heart was shrinking (more of a shribbling and soaking matter causing the reaction of this) and he would not be on this Earth much longer.
We could do nothing more but to wait.

It came to be one day that Jose finished his final work of writing (which happened to be his memoirs) he let me read them, and dear lord I wept at the beautiful words he wrote. I read the entire document in the darkened corner of an empty room with shades of light sweeping in. I found out he had been married, had children but once the feud broke out between him and Dante Alighieri he could not find where they had left. In response, all Jose could do was to wait for time to pass.
In this time, he had perused his long awaited career as a writer, to which he had only received rejections from numerous publications. The first short story he published was, of course, the classic Black Luna Retreating, a novella written in small parts and yet the rights were stolen by Dante’s infamous trickery. He continued writing until he had written a prolific number of novels, plays, and short fiction. His genres were wider than ever yet he specialized in horror romance, inspired by the gothic tales of the genius century and Victorian Sheridan Fanu. True, the story may seem long and dull and yet the words he externalized his life with are so deep and melancholy that staying in your seat without dripping tears of blood-like rain is almost impossible. I had idolized him since I could first read, and read the collected edition of his novel Retreating Fire-the only edition available yet burned when yet again I was deathly ill toward my family. I agreed to cater him when I reached womanhood and my parents had gone on a cruise and never returned; strange perhaps but a tragically dark event with elements of humour, just like a novel by Jose Rossellini himself.
Once I finished reading the last written words which were: of life and death, of time and present-I will continue my legacy far enough to accept and behold the grave-even if my legacy is to be forgotten-I entered a state of thought and depression, it pleased me in a way to know I was receiving a dramatic effect from another novel of my idols. I wish, and oh how I wish, I could love him the way I do in my dreams. As I continued to think of his life I suddenly heard a fall to the hard, wooden ground.
Arising, I searched the top floor to the balcony, only to find him lying on the floor in a black robe with his eyes wide-open-such a horrific and sad way to die. I embraced his corpse, to see if he had really perished-dawn had approached and the sun was far from its time-I looked into his eyes and then closed them myself. I felt his pulse-nothing. I felt the beating of his heart and sadly nothing was present either. He was a dark and misunderstood figure, but I knew he had a heart. I knew he had a heart and if his had stopped beating-I would sacrifice anything to save my beloved. I wept until the sun approached in an attempt to dry my tears-approaching a new and yet tragically lonesome day.

So many words spoken and yet so many left unsaid-my beloved JOSE! Why must you leave me so violently? Why must there be an end to your life-why not me instead? What kind of God would allow this?!
His body I did not let go of, until I made a decision on my own. He had such a large heart within him that it made his own heart perish. He deserved more of time for living-he was not the one whose time it was to die. My mind overwhelmed me and I hatched an idea: I would give him my own heart, romantically I we would be together in an everlasting fantasy.
Only a few moments passed when I held the ancient dagger in my arms. Soaked with tears I let my own blood dripped down when I sliced the chest of my own. Beholding the organs I reached in and pulled out my heart-beating with life. I refused to die, the Goddesses and Gods in the zodiacs above knew my fate was to finish this task-they KNEW that my own fate was about to end but it would end in amour.
Once I held the heart securely I cut open his own chest, blood splattered on his room and some of the balcony. Darkness crept in as this life of his began once more. I replaced his old heart with mine, filled with enough life to keep him going to submit his work to the world.
And yet-
I fell to the ground. Dead and soaked with blood-I had not enough time to place my own heart in his empty chest. My time was up and the Goddesses and Gods had punished me for such foolishness of love. Together we lay-in the only possible form of eternal peace.

Jose Rossellini and I are finally away from the nightmare called the world. Now we find ourselves in a beauty valley that will be anything we please it to be. In a way our lives ended tragically yet our love has somehow not died, only trenched with blood and trauma but still with us eternally in our own melancholy fantasy.