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Here's another original piece that I wrote for class-- I told ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
countermelodic that I would post some of the things I'd written for class. So yeah.
Okay, so once upon a time—
Wha—of course it’s true, but it’s my story and if I and to begin it like a fairy tale, I don’t know why I shouldn’t—
Oh, god. I hate you non-fiction people.
Fine. It all started one fine November morning when I was sitting in my apartment thinking about doing research for a book— I bet you didn’t even know I was a writer, did you? Although to be honest I rather like the idea of researching the subject more than I like writing about it…
What? Oh, you thought I was like, an American Lara Croft, travelling as much as I do? Wicked! I’ve never been compared to a hero before, video game or otherwise. Although I’m not really sure if I want to be compared to Lara Croft because really, she’s all breast and no brain, and she’s the wet dream of all the anti-social computer nerds at MIT. Did you know you can make her swan dive and her neck will—
Oh, yes. Tangent. Sorry, I tend to do that.
Yes, so you see, I want to be one of those Llewellyn writers, the ones that study occult phenomena? I was talking to a colleague of mine— well, he’s not really a colleague, just a Llewellyn writer I really admire—and he wrote a book on Vampires.
Yes, you heard me right. Vampires. Nosferatu, the blood drinkers with a severe sun allergy? The Oh-my-god-Brad-Pitt-and-Stuart-Townsend-are-so-damn-sexy night stalker types? That kind. Oh, yeah. And you know what? He came to the conclusion that Blood Sucking Immortal Vampires are a result of peasant myth and superstition, and that they don’t really exist at all. So I thought: I wonder what kind of advance I’d get if I proved him wrong?
What did you expect me to think? That I was going to spend all my time and energy to uncover a vast conspiracy of some supernatural underworld that hunts and stalks humans every night, and then. What? Save humanity from the evils we can’t see? I don’t think so. Let me give you a tip, Hon—you take money where you can get it. It’s all about the Benjamins.
So I started in the usual places, going down in Mexico to search out a clan of vampire bats for a while, but after a couple of months of getting bat guano in some of the oddest places, I came to the conclusion that vampire bats were not going to get me my conclusive evidence. And I thought: Damn, these vampires are sneaky little buggers! I returned home and placed ads in Fangoria Magazine and V.E.I.N, which is the top underground magazine for the religious/cult/modern vampire society.
What? You’ve never heard of V.E.I.N.? You’re so deprived.
Anyway, I got like, eighty-five replies. Of course, two-thirds of them were basically ‘Hewmen suck! Vamps roxxor!! We will stomp on your puny little bodies until you squish like grapes! LOL OMG WTF?!11!1!’
Exactly. And people wonder why occult research has gone by the wayside
But there was one letter. It was like…aged parchment, written in a kind of old calligraphy and sealed with wax. And it was written in Latin. Thankfully, I had my trusty Latin translator on my lovely computer.
What are you on? Of course I have a computer! This isn’t the thirteen hundreds, you know, and besides, even if I did have mounds of ancient scrolls around my apartment, my roommate would probably throw them out. You don’t know how fussy a gay man can be about dust until you meet Kirk, let me tell you.
So yes. The letter. I have a friend in forensics, and she was nice enough to do her stuff for me. Turns out by the groves left in the paper and a little splinter of something that I couldn’t even see, there was a really good chance that the letter had been written with a quill. So I thought—
Ha ha ha! That’s exactly what I thought! I mean, what kind of fucked up psychotic writes with a quill and ink well in the age of the Internet and typing? Obviously the guy was a fake—or he was real and just wanting to make me think he was a fake. So I wrote him back, suggesting that we meet, and he agreed. He told me to meet him at Honeysuckle Circle at midnight. And you know? What is it with midnight, anyway? Why does everything happen at midnight? Can’t it be at like, ten a.m. so I don’t have to interrupt my sleep? And another thing; why is there always tons of sexy flowers around, too? It’s this huge setup for sex. I mean, who would be dumb enough to let themselves get nailed in a garden, anyway?
…You’re right. I forget how stupid the average person is.
Anyway, I got there at midnight, and the night was deep and dark, and the air was heavy with the smell of flowers. And I waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, after about two and a half-hours, I realized he wasn’t coming. And I thought: Damn it, why does everyone stand me up?
Oh, yeah, go ahead and laugh. How many times have you been stood up on the second date?
I thought so.
To continue with the story, I got tired of waiting and made my way back to the car, cursing every vampire in existence for being stupid S.O.B.’s for not having the guts to show themselves. And then, just like every single horror movie, you know the girl you just know is going to get it? Yeah. Just like one of those girls, I dropped my keys, and they rolled under the car. First of all? Asphalt is not a fun thing to be down on while searching for your keys. Ow. Second—my ass in the air? So not cool. I wriggled my way out from under my car when suddenly I was pulled up, my hair yanked back, and this bastard bites me. See? Here’s the scar!
What do you mean, what did I do? I slashed at the fucker with my key, that’s what! Did you expect me to just lay there pliantly in his arms and think ‘oh, yeah, cannibalism is so my fetish’? I don’t think so. He dropped me and he was clutching his face and crying and weaving around and he’s almost down but he’s still not out. Today’s practical lesson? Grab, twist, and pull really does work, although I’m sure the couple of kicks to the stomach helped too.
I kicked him one more time for good measure and then called the cops on my cell phone—
Of course it worked! Just because I was almost a horror-movie-death-of-the-week doesn’t mean the entire script had to follow the cliché! Jeez. So, then, I got in my car and drove off. Not too bad for a defenseless woman, don’t you think?
What do you mean, do I feel bad? Why the hell should I feel bad? He’s the one that attacked me! I don’t even know who he is!
Why are you—What’s with your ey—Oh. Shit.
Heh.
Hi.
Bitten any defenseless women lately?
countermelodic that I would post some of the things I'd written for class. So yeah.Okay, so once upon a time—
Wha—of course it’s true, but it’s my story and if I and to begin it like a fairy tale, I don’t know why I shouldn’t—
Oh, god. I hate you non-fiction people.
Fine. It all started one fine November morning when I was sitting in my apartment thinking about doing research for a book— I bet you didn’t even know I was a writer, did you? Although to be honest I rather like the idea of researching the subject more than I like writing about it…
What? Oh, you thought I was like, an American Lara Croft, travelling as much as I do? Wicked! I’ve never been compared to a hero before, video game or otherwise. Although I’m not really sure if I want to be compared to Lara Croft because really, she’s all breast and no brain, and she’s the wet dream of all the anti-social computer nerds at MIT. Did you know you can make her swan dive and her neck will—
Oh, yes. Tangent. Sorry, I tend to do that.
Yes, so you see, I want to be one of those Llewellyn writers, the ones that study occult phenomena? I was talking to a colleague of mine— well, he’s not really a colleague, just a Llewellyn writer I really admire—and he wrote a book on Vampires.
Yes, you heard me right. Vampires. Nosferatu, the blood drinkers with a severe sun allergy? The Oh-my-god-Brad-Pitt-and-Stuart-Townsend-are-so-damn-sexy night stalker types? That kind. Oh, yeah. And you know what? He came to the conclusion that Blood Sucking Immortal Vampires are a result of peasant myth and superstition, and that they don’t really exist at all. So I thought: I wonder what kind of advance I’d get if I proved him wrong?
What did you expect me to think? That I was going to spend all my time and energy to uncover a vast conspiracy of some supernatural underworld that hunts and stalks humans every night, and then. What? Save humanity from the evils we can’t see? I don’t think so. Let me give you a tip, Hon—you take money where you can get it. It’s all about the Benjamins.
So I started in the usual places, going down in Mexico to search out a clan of vampire bats for a while, but after a couple of months of getting bat guano in some of the oddest places, I came to the conclusion that vampire bats were not going to get me my conclusive evidence. And I thought: Damn, these vampires are sneaky little buggers! I returned home and placed ads in Fangoria Magazine and V.E.I.N, which is the top underground magazine for the religious/cult/modern vampire society.
What? You’ve never heard of V.E.I.N.? You’re so deprived.
Anyway, I got like, eighty-five replies. Of course, two-thirds of them were basically ‘Hewmen suck! Vamps roxxor!! We will stomp on your puny little bodies until you squish like grapes! LOL OMG WTF?!11!1!’
Exactly. And people wonder why occult research has gone by the wayside
But there was one letter. It was like…aged parchment, written in a kind of old calligraphy and sealed with wax. And it was written in Latin. Thankfully, I had my trusty Latin translator on my lovely computer.
What are you on? Of course I have a computer! This isn’t the thirteen hundreds, you know, and besides, even if I did have mounds of ancient scrolls around my apartment, my roommate would probably throw them out. You don’t know how fussy a gay man can be about dust until you meet Kirk, let me tell you.
So yes. The letter. I have a friend in forensics, and she was nice enough to do her stuff for me. Turns out by the groves left in the paper and a little splinter of something that I couldn’t even see, there was a really good chance that the letter had been written with a quill. So I thought—
Ha ha ha! That’s exactly what I thought! I mean, what kind of fucked up psychotic writes with a quill and ink well in the age of the Internet and typing? Obviously the guy was a fake—or he was real and just wanting to make me think he was a fake. So I wrote him back, suggesting that we meet, and he agreed. He told me to meet him at Honeysuckle Circle at midnight. And you know? What is it with midnight, anyway? Why does everything happen at midnight? Can’t it be at like, ten a.m. so I don’t have to interrupt my sleep? And another thing; why is there always tons of sexy flowers around, too? It’s this huge setup for sex. I mean, who would be dumb enough to let themselves get nailed in a garden, anyway?
…You’re right. I forget how stupid the average person is.
Anyway, I got there at midnight, and the night was deep and dark, and the air was heavy with the smell of flowers. And I waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, after about two and a half-hours, I realized he wasn’t coming. And I thought: Damn it, why does everyone stand me up?
Oh, yeah, go ahead and laugh. How many times have you been stood up on the second date?
I thought so.
To continue with the story, I got tired of waiting and made my way back to the car, cursing every vampire in existence for being stupid S.O.B.’s for not having the guts to show themselves. And then, just like every single horror movie, you know the girl you just know is going to get it? Yeah. Just like one of those girls, I dropped my keys, and they rolled under the car. First of all? Asphalt is not a fun thing to be down on while searching for your keys. Ow. Second—my ass in the air? So not cool. I wriggled my way out from under my car when suddenly I was pulled up, my hair yanked back, and this bastard bites me. See? Here’s the scar!
What do you mean, what did I do? I slashed at the fucker with my key, that’s what! Did you expect me to just lay there pliantly in his arms and think ‘oh, yeah, cannibalism is so my fetish’? I don’t think so. He dropped me and he was clutching his face and crying and weaving around and he’s almost down but he’s still not out. Today’s practical lesson? Grab, twist, and pull really does work, although I’m sure the couple of kicks to the stomach helped too.
I kicked him one more time for good measure and then called the cops on my cell phone—
Of course it worked! Just because I was almost a horror-movie-death-of-the-week doesn’t mean the entire script had to follow the cliché! Jeez. So, then, I got in my car and drove off. Not too bad for a defenseless woman, don’t you think?
What do you mean, do I feel bad? Why the hell should I feel bad? He’s the one that attacked me! I don’t even know who he is!
Why are you—What’s with your ey—Oh. Shit.
Heh.
Hi.
Bitten any defenseless women lately?
no subject
*LICKS YOU*
<333333333333333333333333333333333
OMFGPIMP.
no subject
Thank you for your enthusiasm! And you're welcome to use it, if you'd like. As long as I get to know how it goes. <333333
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no subject
*loves*