Epic of the Vampire; Canto IV- Venenum

The years passed along,

slowly, but surely crawled by,

and the immortals

continued their lives.

The darkness claimed their dear souls

as they sank into it.

Unable to think

of redemption from the curse

they became placant.

Convinced of their fate

they ruled the mortals with fear

and hatred blossomed

like a spring flower,

filling their whole existence.

They questioned themselves,

for what does sin mean,

when its your very nature,

an unchanging fact?

You kill for your food,

you feed on the unholy.

Evil fed on them.

That which made them man

trickled away like lifeblood-

compassion, mercy,

loving-kindness, faith.

Their souls became as their flesh-

cold, dead, frozen.

They yearned for something,

to feel human once again-

to feel anything.

Unable to die,

possessed of a half a life,

they cursed their maker

til anger faded

as despair shrouded their sight

and hatred was dulled.

How the years crawled by,

how quickly does dischord spread

among the undead.

They sought love in flesh;

new life unattainable

through normal methods,

even this lost charm,

in became vain and empty,

a passing pleasure.

How fleeting is lust,

how meaningless is pleasure

with its purpose lost.

An escape was sought

in drink- intoxication.

This- impossible,

when the deadened flesh

can feel none of the poison

imbibed as liquors.

There is no torment,

no torture, no power of dark,

no hell on this earth

quite like that they lived.

As generations passed on

and villages grew,

becoming cities

which then became nation states,

powers united

with other such towns,

the fortress sat unchanging,

claimed by deep despair.

Poisoned by the curse

which grew stronger as time passed,

with no redemption.

And the immortals

continued their lives.

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Epic of the Vampire; Canto 2- Serpentum

The fallen angel

once shone brighter than any

like a star at night.

A prince in heaven,

yet he was a mere servant.

Pride stiffened his knees.

He was created,

and yet he lived without end.

Then God created-

created humans.

Created for God’s pleasure,

raised above the gods

made to serve the God.

The morning star grew jealous,

hatred grew its roots,

clinging to his heart.

The gracious Father knew this,

his heart broke from pain.

In mercy he called

his glorious one to him,

wanting repentance,

knowing he would not.

In hatred, the angel cursed

the one who made him.

Cast from the heavens

his rage he turned on humans-

feeble creations,

yet reflecting God,

those who bear his own thumbprints.

He soon determined

the best revenge be

by marring that image borne.

Sly as a serpent,

he befriended man,

drawing him aside in dark,

to strike the death blow.

Death, too merciful,

everlasting life he gave,

one not worth living.

Unable to speak

the name of his creator,

the word burned his lips.

Cast from paradise,

the angel grasped mankind’s heel,

like Jacob he clung,

dragging him to Hell.

He offered the forbidden

as the drink of life.

Sin would sustain life,

eternal isolation

without any rest.

Gleeful in his wrong,

the fallen angel rejoiced

at what his hands made.

He had made man fall,

unable to call on God,

trapped in the darkness.

Victory was his.

The fallen angel rejoiced

in his wrongdoing.

He celebrated

his revenge over the Lord,

or that’s what he thought.

He brought the long night

over the face of mankind,

the shadows were long.

He laughed at God’s face,

the one who created him,

he turned his back on.

Epic of the Vampire; Canto 1- In Principio

In the beginning,

God created the heavens

and man walked the earth.

He gave life, substance,

breath and shape. He imparted

His image on man.

God loved creation,

tended it and sustained it,

giving his own son.

Among the angels

one grew jealous of mankind,

and hated them much.

He plotted revenge

against God’s favored people.

How to make them fall?

This wretched creature

had no creativity,

he could only change

the nature of man.

“Blood is used for atonement,

ambrosia, life blood.

It is blood I use

to humble this creation.

Forbidden to drink

this drink offering.

I decree they will partake,

to sustain in death

a half-life in dark.

They will feel nothing but cold,

for breath will not pass

between their foul lips.”

Thus saying, he took a man,

wrought the curse on him.

Not dead or alive,

he preyed on blood of his kin,

his friends he drank dry.

A monster, alone,

but when he drank, he could feel

the warmth of their flesh,

their closest held dreams.

For a moment he was man,

only as he drank.

Revolted, he stopped,

refused to drink mankind’s blood.

In a hateful rage

the jealous angel

sent him into a frenzy,

taking his free will,

making him a beast.

Villages he would ravage,

man, woman, and child-

none were safe from him.

Yet the monster craved a mate,

as the years were long

and he could not die.

“It is good for him to have

one to hold, like him.”

The jealous angel

took a woman and changed her,

making a partner.

Because they lived not,

a child’s life they could not make,

child of their own flesh,

to them was given

the power to make others,

their children of death.

The fallen angel

did this to make mockery

of his creator.

Epic of the Vampire; Introduction

There once was a time

when we lingered not in dark,

where shadows cloak us.

There was once a time

when we greeted the sunlight

warm on living flesh.

That time has since passed.

This tale is of creation,

of our creation.

Readers will know us,

of the legends and the myths,

they will give us name.

We are the vampires,

monsters, the drinkers of blood,

chastised with sacred.

Cold War Story–Needs Name–Introduction

The door opened and a young woman entered. She was well tailored, and her bag was a luxury brand that I knew from before the war. The guard murmured something to her as he pulled the door closed, and she nodded.

“Miss Constanza, I am Lillian Vernon, and I’d like to ask you a few questions about your wartime activities, for the morning Messenger,” she said, speaking rapidly, pulling several items out of her bag. A notepad was set on the table, followed by a pen, an audio recorder, and  a bottle of water.

“Of course,” I said duly. That was why this meeting had been arranged. I had been told by the warden, who oversaw my communication with the outside world, that this bright young reporter had thought it would be entertaining to take my story to the general public. I don’t know how she’d managed it, when I was labeled a national traitor, and was biding my time until the end, the day when the government finished what it had started. My execution day.

“First, let’s see if this is working,” she chirped, not deterred by my lack of enthusiasm. Her fingers danced over the recorded, fixing the tape and setting it into the on position. “Thirtieth of March, 1954, St. Helena’s Penitentiary for Women, beginning at 8 in the morning.” She set the receiver on the table between us. “Lillian Vernon, interviewing Ms. Victoire Constanza.”

Apparently satisfied with the results, she flipped her notebook open, and removed the cap from her pen. Looking at me fully for the first time, she seemed to grow- reinforced with professionalism, perhaps.

“First, tell me what your role was in the events of September twenty-first, 1950?” she asked, her hand ready to write.

“I was the one who burned the flag,” I said, memories flooding back. “That was our signal, you know.”

“So you were involved from the beginning?”

“No, no, I wasn’t,” I said, meeting her gaze squarely. “The beginning was longer ago than you might imagine.”

“When was the beginning, then?”

“Do you want to know about my role in the movement, or the history of the movement?” I asked abruptly. She studied me for a minute, then answered.

“I want to know your story, though clarification may be necessary.”

“The government won’t like it,” I warned.

“The government can’t stop the public from knowing the truth.”

“Then I’ll tell you my story.”

Nameless Story III Chapter 3

His card stayed where he had left it until several days after Julie’s funeral, when I helped Lizzy clean the library. She picked it up and looked curiously at it, reading the name several time through.

“What’s this doing here?” she asked me, offering the card to me. I took it and glanced down at it.

“Andre Bourbon? I don’t think that Papa associates with journalists,” I said, turning it over.

“You could ask your father, perhaps?” Lizzy suggested.

“No,” I said. Papa had shut himself up in his room, rarely emerging. Lizzy and I had taken turns bringing him trays, but even he hardly at what we brought him. It was then that I remembered. “It’s the motorist’s card.”

“Why’d he leave it?” Lizzy asked, turning away to finish her dusting.

“He offered his assistance, should we need it,” I said, sliding the card into my apron pocket. Later I would put it with my father’s other cards.

~~~

Thomas Letter~~~

“Samantha,” Henry said after we had finished our supper one evening. “Father received a letter concerning you earlier this evening.”

“What about me?” I asked, clearing the table. After the expenses of Julie’s funeral, we had to let go of our evening maid, which meant that Lizzy and I were trying to fill her place.

“Thomas Cook wanted to maintain correspondence with you while he’s working abroad,” Henry said. “Because he intends to pay you court when mourning ends.”

“And what does father think of this?” I asked calmly, pausing.

“Papa hasn’t seen the letter yet. Nor will he,” Henry said. “I’ve been handling his personal correspondence.”

“What?” I asked, surprised. “But, Henry-”

“Samantha, he wasn’t responding to them,” Henry said. “Good lord, have you seen the man, Sammy? He sits catatonic on the edge of his bed. His guilt is eating him alive from the inside out.”

“So you’re reading and answering his mail? It’s not as if he’s dead, Henry!”

“But it’s also not as if he’s in his right mind, Sam,” he retorted. “Now, back to Thomas. Should I give him permission to write you?”

“Do what you like, Henry,” I said, gathering my load and heading out to the kitchen with our empty dishes. I had just set them down on the counter when I heard a Lizzy shriek and a crash from upstairs.

“Lizzy, is everything alright?” Henry called, and I heard him thunder up the stairs. Terrified, I raced to follow him upstairs.

“Mr. Hancock!” Lizzy was blubbering uncontrollably. She stood outside the door to father’s room, sobbing hysterically. “I went in to bring him his supper and I found him like that!” Henry burst into the bedroom and I moved to follow him as Lizzy grabbed onto my arm, holding me in place.

“Miss, you can’t go in there!” she exclaimed. “It’s too horrible. No one should ever see that.”

“Oh God,” Henry said. “Papa! Papa! No, no, no!” He reappeared in the doorway, a sickened look on his face. “Lizzy, take Sam downstairs. Now!”

“What happened, Henry?” I asked, a sick feeling forming in my gut. “What’s happened?”

“Come this way, Miss Samantha,” Lizzy said, pulling on my sleeve. “You don’t want to see.”

“See what?” I asked, trying to jerk away from Lizzy, who only held me tighter. “What happened?” I asked again, desperately.

“Don’t struggle now, Miss,” Lizzy said, wrapping me in a hug, holding me back.

“Just go downstairs, Samantha!” Henry shouted at me as he returned to our father’s room. “Go now!”

I struggled with Lizzy for a few moments before I finally broke free, and I vaulted to the doorway, where I froze. A cord hung from the ceiling, and from it my father was dangling.

“No! Daddy!” I screamed, stumbling back. I tripped on the hemline of my skirts and landed at Lizzy’s feet. “Papa! No! Why? Why?”

The tears came unbidden, and I started to cry. My world felt like it was slipping away, one person at a time.

“Oh, Sammy, I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have seen this,” Henry said gently, kneeling beside me. “I didn’t want you to see that.” He wrapped his arms around me, and I cuddled into him.

“Why’d he have to-?” I asked quietly. “Why couldn’t he have stayed?”

“I’m sorry, Sammy,” he replied. “But I don’t know. Now will you go downstairs with Lizzy, and she can make you a nice cup of tea? I’ll clean this up, and then we can discuss father’s wishes.”

“Come along, Miss Samantha,” Lizzy said gently, lifting me to my feet. “Come on downstairs, miss.”

~~~

Henry’s Journal

Wednesday 18 November, 1893

I’m getting concerned about Sammy. We had Father’s funeral three nights ago, and cremated him out beyond city limits, like we do for all suicides. But Sam- she just sits and stares into space. Rarely does she respond to anyone speaking to her, and Lizzy is doing all she can to make her eat. It’s like a part of Sam died with our father.

On another note, I have finally begun to going through the recent records of the shop. Father didn’t tell us, but his manager has revealed that we are greatly in debt. I believe this is due to poor management of the shop while Father was in mourning- Mr. Williamson is fond of taking risks with the finances entrusted him, which Father would have never approved of.

I don’t know what I can do for Sammy. I need to provide for her, but I’m afraid the monies Papa had set aside for her dowry were lost in the poor investments made. I can only hope that I can earn it back, and it won’t hurt her prospects. Maybe Thomas will take her even with a small dowry because of our friendship. At least I have a year to find a way to fix this.

~~~

Andres Letter 1

 

Review of “Malice”

In recent years, paranormal books have filled the shelves of bookstores and libraries, and the excerpt for Malice by Lisa Jackson led me to question whether it would be another one of those books. Having finished this chilling and gripping book,I am passed to report that it is not just another paranormal book. In fact, it is all the more gripping and chilling due to how utterly earthly it was.

The questions this book raises center largely on the quest for answers Rick Bentz embarks on, and the discretion needed to determine whether or not his mind is fooling him and the reader both. Instead of the paranormal book I thought I was reading, this book classifies fully as a psychological thriller, drawing out the reader’s tension right until the very last pages. Lisa Jackson is a genius in her genre and this novel is decidedly well written.

For those who are easily spooked, our dislike crude language and sexual references, this may not be the book for you. Likewise, if you’re looking for a light read, you might want to reconsider your choice, as this is a murder mystery, and forces the reader to wrestle through the same problems Bentz is dealing with. However, if you enjoy a spooky, sexy, and thrilling novel, I highly recommend this book for you.