woodpryan's Written Works

[woodpryan]

The Shadowman (http://www.thedarktower.org/palaver/showthread.php?10623-woodpryan-s-Written-Works&p=512480&viewfull=1#post512480)

Demetrius - Part 1 (http://www.thedarktower.org/palaver/showthread.php?10623-woodpryan-s-Written-Works&p=515277&viewfull=1#post515277)

Demetrius - Parts 2 and 3 (http://www.thedarktower.org/palaver/showthread.php?10623-woodpryan-s-Written-Works&p=515352&viewfull=1#post515352)

Demetrius Parts 4-6 (http://www.thedarktower.org/palaver/showthread.php?10623-woodpryan-s-Written-Works&p=515368&viewfull=1#post515368)

Demetrius Parts 7 and 8 (http://www.thedarktower.org/palaver/showthread.php?10623-woodpryan-s-Written-Works&p=515382&viewfull=1#post515382)

Demetrius Parts 9-17 (http://www.thedarktower.org/palaver/showthread.php?10623-woodpryan-s-Written-Works&p=515423&viewfull=1#post515423)

Demetrius - full story (http://www.thedarktower.org/palaver/showthread.php?10623-woodpryan-s-Written-Works&p=515729&viewfull=1#post515729)

The Dinner Guest (http://www.thedarktower.org/palaver/showthread.php?10623-woodpryan-s-Written-Works&p=515862&viewfull=1#post515862)

Drive (http://www.thedarktower.org/palaver/showthread.php?10623-woodpryan-s-Written-Works&p=519129&viewfull=1#post519129)

Erroneous Perception (http://www.thedarktower.org/palaver/showthread.php?10623-woodpryan-s-Written-Works&p=525148&viewfull=1#post525148)

House of Ash (http://www.thedarktower.org/palaver/showthread.php?10623-woodpryan-s-Written-Works&p=528493&viewfull=1#post528493)

The Affair (working title) (http://www.thedarktower.org/palaver/showthread.php?10623-woodpryan-s-Written-Works&p=557020&viewfull=1#post557020)

Embers and Ashes (http://www.thedarktower.org/palaver/showthread.php?10623-woodpryan-s-Written-Works&p=681031&viewfull=1#post681031)




The Shadowman


I'm posting the revisions to "The Shadowman". I think that it is finished now but I'd still like to know what you guys think of it. I may still change some things based on your opinions. Any feedback is appreciated.












The Shadowman
By
Ryan Wood













1

The door (which had been closed when the light went out) stood open, just a crack. It stood across the moonlight stricken room from the bed and according to his father, it was home to nothing more than clothes and the toys he did not play with any more. The walls of the room were a blue, which was warm and welcoming in the day time, but seemed as dark as his father's evening glass of wine when the lights went out and it was time to fight off sleep again. The boy was still too young to take an interest in plastering his walls with posters of bands. The closet door was not fully illuminated by the moonlight, but only vaguely hinted at. It's shape could be made out, but it was shrouded in darkness.
Benjamin lay on his bed, looking at the door with wide eyes. His father had opened that door before leaving him in the dark and shown him again, that there was nothing for be afraid of inside. He had successfully remained awake for one hour since his father had closed the bedroom door, staring unflinchingly at the closet the whole time. He could hear The Shadowman breathing in harsh gasps from behind it. It's sharp, yellow claws waited behind the door and Ben could see it's bloodshot eye glowing in the darkness, peaking out at him, waiting for him to fall asleep. Ben didn't think The Shadowman could get him while he was awake. It seemed as though it had to wait for sleep to take him.
For almost a week, Ben has struggled with this every night. His mother wanted to get him a night light (as though such a ridiculous thing could stop The Shadowman) but his father had stood firm on the matter. He had been firm with Ben too, saying that Ben had to face the darkness alone and face his fears. He had taken a Pal-Mal from the pack in his shirt pocket, struck a wooden match with his thumbnail, and inhaled deeply. When Ben's father smoked in front of him, Ben knew it was serious. “Son,” he had said, gravely, putting his right arm around his shoulders. They were sitting outside on the front porch swing, slowly rocking back and forth. “Do you want to go around for the rest of your life afraid all the time?”
“No daddy.”
“You have to face your fears son. You can't be afraid of things that don't make sense. There is nothing in your closet but your clothes and those damn toys that you never play with. This thing... this... what is it that you call it?”
“Shadowman,” Ben had said timidly, feeling like the world's biggest idiot. “He's The Shadowman.”
Benjamin's father took another long drag from his cigarette. “This shadow man is nothing more than a figment of your imagination, buddy. It's not real. Do you understand?”
“Yes daddy,” he had told him. His voice was strong, reassuring, but when he woke up screaming for the fourth night in a row with The Shadowman standing just outside the closet, his father had not been quite so understanding this time. He had stormed into the room angry with him, yelling. He had pulled the closet door open again and pointed into it, where nothing more scary than dirty clothes and dilapidated boxes waited. He had not comforted him this time, but bellowed at him. “You have to face these ridiculous fears Ben! You'll never get anywhere in life if you don't!”
The next night, he had lain awake for three hours before sleep overpowered his overburdened mind. He awoke, seemingly minutes later, screaming and The Shadowman had crept all the way to his bedside. It was poised above him with it's yellow claws ready to peal the skin from his face. Sores riddled The Shadowman's face, as well as it's strong arms, broad shoulders, and it's decaying stomach. They ran openly with yellow puss and thick, dark blood. It's teeth were razor sharp, yellow like his claws, and flesh was caught in them, hanging in flaps. The blood from the sores ran down it's grinning face and directly into it's mouth. The Shadowman did not have a nose and Benjamin could see directly into it's nasal cavity. He could smell it's breath like a bucket full of fish, rotted in the sun for a week. It's red, glowing eyes danced with laughter and it brought it's face up close to his.
“The first thing I'm going to do,” it whispered, “Is rip out that tongue so you can't scream anymore.” The Shadowman put it's hand over Ben's mouth to stop the sound of it and laughed with his deep voice. He continued to try, the sound of his voice muffled by the blood soaked, sore ridden hand. He could taste it, as some of the liquid seeped through his lips and into his mouth. He stopped trying to scream so that no more of the acrid taste would touch his tongue. As he realized his father was not going to answer his screams, his bladder let go, soaking his pajamas and the bed.
“After I eat your tongue, I'm going to devour that little boy part down there so you can never make that mess again.” At the thought, Ben's eyes opened wider, fear coursing through his body and he began to whimper weakly. “Next, I'll rip out your throat and drink every drop of blood from your squirting arteries. And when I've eaten every last bit of you that I can stomach, I'll take your non-believing parents.”
What went through Ben's mind then was not fear, but rage. Never again would his father take him fishing. He would never play baseball with him again or clap him on the back, laughing at one of his jokes. His mother would never talk to him about school or his friends again, never cook his favorite meal again. And Ben was angry. As The Shadowman pulled his comforter back to get started, Ben screamed at him.
“No! They're my family and you can't HAVE them! Leave them alone!” The Shadowman hissed at him like a cat and quickly backed away from him toward the closet. It didn't want to take Ben while he was angry. It wanted Ben scared when it ate him. The boy stared back at him defiantly and The Shadowman retreated back to the closet. “Tomorrow,” it whispered.

2

The boy was looking at him. He could see it from the closet, laying in it's bed, trembling with fear. He did not wait for it to go to sleep because that was when he wanted to take his meal. He waited because he wanted the boy to be afraid. It's fear strengthened him, while it's thoughts allowed him to come back night after night. With each passing night, it's fear had grown and with it, his strength. He enjoyed the new form the boy had conjured for him. It was strong and powerful. He could rip the the boy easily and cast him aside like a rag doll if that was what he wanted to do. This new form created such wonderful fear in the boy.
The fear of a boy was stronger, more substantial than that of an adult. An adult's fears consisted of superficial whining and material worth. Does my wife still love me? Is my husband cheating on me? Can I pay all the bills this month? And on and on. An endless string of senseless worries and self-evaluations. A child feared the vampire at the window, begging entrance to suck the body dry, the monster beneath the bed, the thing in the closet. The child's fears were real.
The boy wouldn't fight him. It had pissed all over itself at the very thought of being alone with him without it's father's help. But it had been angry at the mention of it's family. There was that to think about. The Shadowman dismissed the thought. It was unimportant. The time would come tonight. He waited, slowly cracking the door open wider. This trick never failed to induce the fear of a child. He could see it trembling now. Soon,he thought as it's fear mounted. Soon.

3

Benjamin couldn't keep going on like this. He had to kill The Shadowman or die trying because the alternative was to die doing nothing and then his parents would be next in line. Ben could still see the red eye glaring at him from the closet across the room. The moonlight shone on the walls with only mild illumination. But it was enough so that Ben could see the blood dripping from all four walls of the room and he knew that The Shadowman had conjured it to scare him more. And it worked too. Ben was afraid of the work ahead. It would be near impossible and Ben was sure he would probably fail. His heart was hammering in his chest, hard and fast.
Ben's weapon was in the closet with The Shadowman. He couldn't take it out before bed and keep it with him because his father would have known what it was for and he would have told him to put it back. He hadn't had a chance to hide it beneath the sheets before bed either. If Ben could get passed The Shadowman and get to it, he was sure he could kill it.
With stiff arms, Ben pulled back the comforter and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He stood, turned, and faced the door. He looked directly at the eye of The Shadowman and stood his ground. It was time.
“Come on,” he whispered, simply.
The closet door opened, creaking on it's hinges and The Shadowman stepped out, his bloody feet making wet smacking noises on the hardwood. Benjamin could hear the liquid dripping from it's grotesque form onto the floor. He could hear it's breath more clearly now and he could smell it once more. Benjamin and The Shadowman stood facing each other across the room.
The Shadowman let loose a scream of rage, it's voice booming in the room and the boy's heart beat ever faster. As afraid as he was, the boy took a step forward, challenging it. The Shadowman ran forward, charging at him and Ben ran too, charging right back. As they were about to collide, Ben dipped left like a quarter back going for the touchdown. He wasn't quick enough, however, and The Shadowman's outstretched arm caught him in the neck. He went sprawling on his back, knocking his head on the floor, dazing him momentarily. The Shadowman let out another full throated scream as it turned back to face him again. Ben sat up, gained his feet, and lunged forward as quickly as he could, but he still wasn't fast enough. The Shadowman hit him in the back, scratching him and he dropped to his stomach in the closet doorway where he attempted to crawl to his weapon. The Shadowman grabbed him, lifted him like a bag of feathers while he screamed and dropped him on his back, still in the doorway of the closet. Pain shot through his back and head when he was slammed down. It leaned forward and screamed at him again, taking him by the throat. “You think you can face me brat,” it screamed, blowing more decayed fish breath into Benjamin's face. It's claws dug into his throat, drawing blood, cutting him in several places along the neck. “I've devoured hundreds before you and I will take hundreds more after you are dead. Your parents will taste like fine cuisine!” It laughed, grinning, knowing that it would defeat the defenseless boy. Ben reached back as far as his arm could stretch. He could just touch the hilt of his weapon. The pressure on his throat was threatening to make him pass out. He could feel the darkness closing in on him. He held on with all the strength he had left, keeping the image of his mother and father in his mind.
“No,” he breathed in a choked voice. “You're just a pigment of my magination. You can't hurt me.”
The Shadowman screamed and momentarily recoiled from his words, shocked that the boy would dare to spew such madness. The moment was enough for Ben. He pushed backward as far as he could and gripped his sword. He pulled it from the closet and it glowed with a solid, unflinching blue light in his hands. Ben stood with his sword and The Shadowman lunged forward. As it did, Ben thrust his sword forward and it penetrated The Shadowman's midsection. The same blue light that flashed from the sword poured out of it's wound. It screamed with rage and pain and thrashed at Ben. It struck him in the chest and cut him deeply all the way to his stomach. Ben fell backward into the closet. The Shadowman reached.
“You're not real!” Ben screamed. “I don't even believe in you any more and you can't hurt me or my family EVER!” The Shadowman grabbed him beneath the arms with both arms and lifted him, shook him like a rag doll and then drew his face close to it's own.
“I am real! And you will believe again when I begin to peal the skin from your face! It's be like taking the skin off a fruit.” The Shadowman's claws dug into his back between the shoulders, drawing more blood. Benjamin was cut in several places now.
Ben pulled back his arm and plunged the sword forward into it's chest. It screamed and dropped him again. Ben scrambled up and struck The Shadowman again in the midsection. The blue light was brighter now, stronger. The light was breaking through The Shadowman's skin in hundreds of cracks. It was screaming in real pain now and clutching at the sword. “You can't,” it screamed defiantly as if Benjamin wasn't killing it. It stumbled backward toward the bed, trying to get away from Ben.
“You're not real! And you can NEVER come back!” Ben cried, and made one final slice with his sword, aiming for the neck and striking home with tremendous force. The Shadowman broke into a million pieces then, shattering on the floor in a blinding flash of light, against which, Ben had to close his eyes.
He could hear his father coming down the hallway, bellowing all the way. Don't worry, Daddy, he thought, You're safe now. He was bleeding from at least fifteen different wounds from the shadow man's claws. It stung like fire and Benjamin closed his eyes against the pain. He was lying on the floor, covered in his own blood. His father burst through the door and Ben could no longer fight unconsciousness.

[woodpryan]

*Note* the full story is now posted below. it is post number 10. What is posted here before post number 10 is not the latest version. post 10 is the story as it is on may 26.

This is the beginning of my story "Demetrius". I am posting the first 1,400 words here. It is about a widowed woman and her four children. The woman rents her room out for extra money in addition to their inheritance from the dead father/husband. One night, a vampire named Demetrius Sandulescu comes to rent the room.
Now, I know that the vampire is getting pretty tired here lately with all the "teen fiction" out there turning the vampire into a ridiculous story about love. But that is the whole point of my story. I wanted to return the vampire to what he was meant to be when Bram Stoker wrote his classic "Dracula". The name of my vampire in itself is a throwback to the man, the first name beginning with D (Dracula) and the last name beginning with S (Stoker). I wanted to show the power and evil of the vampire and show the human loss that it causes. I hope you enjoy this introduction. If I receive some feedback here, I will post the next section. I know it's kind of hard to read without some damn paragraph indentation, but please bare with me. I use tabs instead of space for my paragraphs and it doesn't get picked up when posting here.




"Demetrius"
By Ryan Wood
1

On the outskirts of Shelton Texas, a rather large house was once a home to a family of five; a widow raising four kids with money from her inheritance from her husband. By all accounts, they were a normal, average American family. Three of the children, having not finished school, attended daily and their mother rented out their spare bedroom to bring in extra money in addition to her sizable inheritance. They had grieved the loss of the man that had been a wonderful father and husband and they had, for the most part, moved on with their lives as best they could. But on a cool night in July, this house had an evil thrust upon it, the likes of which they never before could have possibly imagined. That house is now a ruin of it's former self, blackened from the fire that was the only means by which the stains of blood could have been removed from its walls.
It had been a ridiculously hot day, the temperature rising over one hundred degrees and one could have cooked their eggs on the sidewalk (if they were interested in sidewalk eggs, that is). One could look off into the distance and see a mirage simmering above the ground like the glimmer of water.
After finishing school for the day, James Matheson spent most of his afternoon and evening reading. As his favorite form of entertainment, James read as often and as much as he could; on the bus to and from school, during classroom free time, at home while his siblings watched television, in waiting rooms, and everywhere he could. He often carried a mass market paperback in his back pocket so that he could quickly become engulfed in the land of horror fiction once again. James had read everything Stephen King ever wrote, as well as much of Bram Stoker's work, Shirley Jackson, Ray Bradbury and countless others. When he sat down to watch a movie, it would most likely be an adaptation of a novel he had just finished.
The walls of his bedroom were plastered with posters from hard rock bands and horror movies. The members of Metallica glared at him from one of these posters and Freddy Krueger brooded from another, his long-nailed glove in front of his burned, twisted face. On the wall with the door to the hallway, a long book case covered all of it except for the door. Many hardback first editions (inherited from his father) were displayed on it. A television stood across from the bed against one wall and a desk sat next to the window, an old Underwood typewriter standing on it's weathered and splintered surface. James had inherited the desk and typewriter from his father as well. This is where James sat as the night enveloped the town, bringing an odd cool with it that unnerved him a little.
That cool didn't seem natural to him. It was strange to go from such a hot day to such a cool night, he thought. It seemed sinister and unreal to him. And such was his nature. His imagination was a powerful tool which was always kept sharp.
He sat at his typewriter with a clean sheet of paper rolled into it, looking out the window as if hoping for some sort of inspiration. His shirt was off and when he pushed up the window to let in a light breeze, it felt like a blessing on his skin, which had been sweating all day. He lived on the second story of his mother's rather large and isolated house and the heat rose up to his room all day, making him sweat like a cold glass of water on a hot day. Slipknot was on his CD player (this was also helpful for inspiration) and he was ready to tackle a new short story, beat it into submission, and make it lie still on the pages.
There was no girl in his life and he was not particularly interested in finding one. What he was interested in was writing good fiction and he felt as though nothing could slow him down. He would be the next Stephen King (at the very least, the next Dean Koontz), he thought. He sent his short stories off to fantasy, horror, and literary magazines often and he felt that it was only a matter of time before he received his first acceptance letter.
As he began brainstorming his next story, his brother burst through the bedroom door. At nineteen years old, James wondered if Corey was ever going to move into his own place or if he would live with his mother forever. He was the oldest of Marie Matheson's children, but sometimes he seemed the least mature of them.
“Whatcha doin' bro?” he asked, striding over James' red carpeted floor to look at his typewriter. “Writing another lame ass story James? Gonna submit it to another lame magazine and add to your collection?” He pointed at the spike on James' desk where he had stabbed all his many rejection slips. Corey seemed unaware of the irony in calling his brother lame. He sported a week's worth of stubble on his cheeks and his black hair was shaggy, sticking up in the back. With no job, Corey laid around on the couch on most days trying to get his mother off his back and watching TV.
“Corey, c'mon man, leave me alone alright? I had some good ideas going until you came barging in here.”
“Dude, you've never had a good idea in your life. Your little dweeb stories are all stock. An original idea has never crossed your idiot head.”
“Go fuck yourself man,” James said. “You're so lame, you don't even have your own place and you're nineteen already.”
“I've been looking around at a few apartments man. There are some places downtown with some pretty good prices and I've been thinking about moving out there.”
“Yeah, like your going to get a place with no job. Fucking moron.” James' voice sounded exasperated.
“Why don't you get a job? You're sixteen now. You can work. You're too lame even to wash dishes at Jamie's Steak House. You'll just write rip off stories for the rest of your life and never get laid,” Corey said, unaware that he would die, both a nineteen year old virgin and begging for his life on his knees.
“I like James' stories,” Sarah said from the doorway in an indignant voice of which, only a ten year old girl seems to be capable. Sarah was the youngest of the Matheson children.
James got up from his chair, beaming at Sarah (his favorite sibling by far) and walked toward her, thankful for the interruption. “Thanks, Sarah. Give me five,” he said, putting out his hand.
She slapped it with her own small hand and smiled, where a few adult teeth were beginning to show themselves. Her blue eyes sparkled with delight at her brother's companionship. Her black hair was chest length and freshly washed. She wore the nightgown of a little girl who wants to show how much she is growing up.
“Don't you think it's about time to go to bed?” he asked. Since his father died, James had been the one to take on the role of “man of the house”, a position which should have gone to Corey had he been mature enough to take on the responsibilities.
That was when an interruption came that no one had been expecting. A triple knock came at the door, brisk, firm, and loud. The three of them jumped, heads snapping toward the sound. James' heart jumped into his throat and pounded there, his mind already racing with what monsters could be requesting entry into their dwelling.
“What the fuck,” Corey said, his bushy eyebrows coming together in the middle of his forehead. “It's almost ten o' clock.”
James' mind had stopped racing with fantastical musings of what could be at their door and had settled on a more logical, probable answer. “It's probably Samantha's boyfriend,” he said with obvious disdain in his voice.
Sarah turned from him and began to pelt down the stairs to the door (she liked Samantha's boyfriend as she seemed to like everyone), not quite reaching it before her mother. James and Corey walked out of the room behind her and stood at the top of the stairs looking down at the front door. Slipknot continued in James' room.

[woodpryan]

Re: Demetrius

I know they say that if you have nothing nice to say, don't say anything at all, but I assure you that this rule does not apply to this post.

[Dagavidiab]

Re: Demetrius


I know they say that if you have nothing nice to say, don't say anything at all, but I assure you that this rule does not apply to this post.

hahahaha (for the quote)

And for the rest, i have a strong feeling that you feel very related with James, right? And keep posting!

[woodpryan]

Re: Demetrius



I know they say that if you have nothing nice to say, don't say anything at all, but I assure you that this rule does not apply to this post.

hahahaha (for the quote)

And for the rest, i have a strong feeling that you feel very related with James, right? And keep posting!

ah, alas, I must confess, James has a lot of me inside of him... I'm going to go ahead and say he is a sixteen year old version of myself. I wasn't quite as smart as James and I couldn't write as well as James, but other than that; me. Oh well. Sai King says that all of our characters tend to have a little of us in them. I believe him.

[woodpryan]

Demetrius

well, here are parts two and three. Thank you for encouragment. I will post some more later. Let me know what you guys are thinking about this thing. I hope it is holding your interest.


2

Samantha was the only one in the family who had seen the man coming toward the house as she was looking out her bedroom window with it's black curtains parted to let in the moonlight when the stranger showed up. She had the room in the back corner of the house, the upstairs bathroom standing between her room and James'. The man had walked (no, walked wasn't the right word, she thought. He had seemed to glide) through the cool night air toward the back of the house. She had been thinking about her boyfriend and wondering how to break up with him. Samantha was seventeen years old and easily one of the most beautiful girls at Shelton High School. Her long, dyed blond hair, her long slender legs, thin hourglass figure, and large (for a seventeen year old) bust made her highly sought after, and she loved the attention it gained her.
She was coming to realize, however, that she enjoyed that attention too much. After the death of her father, Samantha, unknowingly had a crisis in which she sought desperately to replace the man. She had dated steadily in middle school and seemed to go through a boyfriend every couple months, rarely remaining single. When she lost her virginity at the age of sixteen, she had undergone another sort of crisis, during which, she wanted sex more often than is normal for a teenage girl.
She would tell him tomorrow, she thought. She couldn't keep going on lying; he had to know. Jimmy was a good person though, and it would be horribly difficult and, at the same time, somewhat relieving to finally get this off her chest. He was smart, funny, charming, and he certainly had his head on straight. She liked him a lot (even told him that she loved him) and she felt terrible about cheating on him. But dear god, was he terrible in bed. Steve made her feel like a woman while Jimmy made her feel like a teenager (which she did not like to admit she was); in the bedroom anyway. Outside of the bedroom, Steve didn't have a brain in his head and probably would never amount to anything. Samantha was seventeen though. She had plenty of time to worry about settling down with someone who was going somewhere in life. She would tell him everything, she decided. And that was when she noticed the man, walking toward her house.
She put down the Cosmopolitan she had been looking at (but not reading) and watched him approach. She immediately noted the fluid manner in which he walked. He had a certain sophistication about him, which she admired and she hoped that he was coming here to rent the extra room. It was always in the paper that they had the extra room for rent. It only cost them forty dollars a week to keep the ad running and they often made two or three hundred off it each week. As he approached the back of the house, he looked up at her and for a moment she was frightened. Something about his eyes was strange. She couldn't quite put her finger on it. She almost could, and then it was gone. The man smiled at her and she noticed that his lips were a blood red that made her heart flutter with desire for him. Jesus, she thought. I never should have given up my virginity. I'm becoming a slut. The man removed his hat (a black fedora), placed it on his chest, and gave her a little bow, never even breaking his stride.
Other than the fedora, the man was wearing a black suit with a blood red tie that almost perfectly matched his lips and a white work shirt. His shoes shined in the bright summer moonlight and he wore black socks (or so she supposed; she was sure she would be able to see them from here if they had been white) and black slacks. She saw that he had extremely long, shining, and beautiful black hair which flowed to the middle of his back.
She gave him a little wave back and a smirk he probably couldn't see from his vantage point and she watched him make his way to the back of the house. She got up from the bed and moved closer to the window so she could watch him as he moved around to the side of the house, either headed for the street or their front door. She walked around her bed and turned off her CD player, cutting off Lady Ga Ga in mid sentence and opened the door. She stood there for a minute waiting and just as she was about to close it again, the rapid triple knock came at the door. Delighted, she walked down the hallway, past her brothers and followed her sister down the stairs to greet the stranger.

3

Marie Matheson was cleaning the kitchen and thinking of her late husband when the knock came at the front door. She had inherited this house as well as a large sum of money from the man to whom she had been married for twenty years. They had met in high school in 1988 and they had hit it off right away. Her mother had liked him from the start and her father had taken some convincing as all fathers seemed to need. But it had not taken him long to come to like Mark (as much as any father could, considering the boy in question was banging his daughter) and it had taken Marie even less time to fall deeply in love with him. They had married at a small church in Shelton and she had given him his first son at the age of nineteen. Soon after she birthed their first daughter, they had acquired this house. Mark's ambitions had been great, but his determination had been greater. He had inherited money from his father (not much, but enough) and had invested it wisely in real estate, which he sold with what seemed like supernatural ease.
Mark may have been a genius when it came to real estate speculation but he wasn't too savvy when it came to keeping himself in good health. When she married him at the age of eighteen, he had been smoking a pack a day, but by the time he died of heart disease, he was putting away two packs a day. They didn't call them cowboy killers for nothing. She had loved him unconditionally until they put him in the ground five years ago; their youngest daughter, Sarah having only been with them for five years then. He had invested his retirement money as wisely as he had invested in real estate, and she would be able to live for the rest of her life with it as long as she spent it sparingly and wisely. The house had been paid off when he died and the extra bedroom that they had been planning to fill with one more child had to go to some sort of use.
She began renting it out to strangers, mostly train hoppers who paid what they could. They would hop the train on it's way to or from El Paso and come to her house asking for a place to stay. The going rate on her room was fifty dollars a night and she included dinner as well as breakfast in that price. She would take their fifty dollars, fill them up, let them sleep, fill them up again, and send them on their way. If they didn't have much money and the room wasn't taken up for the night she would sometimes let them stay anyway, as long as she was in a good mood when they got there and as long as they showed some good manners. On this particular night, she was expecting the room to remain empty, as usually the train hoppers came in around eight o' clock and the ones who were passing through came in a little earlier. It was almost ten o' clock and she was about to go upstairs and coax Sarah into going downstairs to bed, when the knock came at the door.
Who the hell... she thought, walking briskly to the door. Sarah was running down the stairs to the door with the apparent intention of opening it. As Marie reached the door and put her right hand on the knob, she put out her left hand in a “stop” gesture to stay her daughter's momentum. The girl stopped abruptly and looked at her with anticipation and glee in her eyes. Marie wasn't so quick to be happy about receiving such a late call and was more apprehensive and slightly angered than curious. She put her eye to the peep hole and got her first glimpse of the man who would ruin her family in one night.
She opened the door and the light from the living room showed her a man who was beautiful and dark at the same time. His skin was pale and his cheeks were gaunt, sunken in, as if he had not eaten in days. But his lips were a sensuous red and he had beautiful long black hair. His eyes were a penetrating green which reminded her of the husband she still loved deeply. Those eyes were almost hypnotizing. He was well dressed, as if he had just finished a business meeting. He was holding his black fedora in his right hand against his chest and he gave her a funny little bow almost like a china-man greeting a friend.
“Are you Mrs. Marie Matheson?” he asked. She could not place his accent. It was strange and he was obviously not from Texas, or anywhere near Texas for that matter.
“Y-yes, I am. Can I help you?”
“I deeply apologize for calling on you and your beautiful family at such a late hour,” he said, indicating the children staring at him from behind her. “But I am in town for one night, passing through you see, and I hoped to rent a room. I have heard that you have one available.”
“Look,” she said, still apprehensive despite her immediate liking of this man. “I normally don't-”
“I understand and I assure you that I will pay more than twice the normal cost of your room. I also assure you that I will be gone before the sun shows its first light.”
“Normally, I would assume you are a man of your word, sir, but under these circumstances-”
“Of course,” he said, removing a battered wallet from his back pocket. “I hope I have not offended you with my assumptions that you would take in a stranger at such an hour, but I greatly appreciate your hospitality.” He handed her six twenty dollar bills. That was enough for her. But she still did not let him in yet. He stood just outside the threshold of her door, smiling at her with teeth that were perfectly white and perfectly set.
“You've already missed dinner, but I can still offer you breakfast in the morning if you would like, Mr...”
“My apologies,” he said, bowing once more. “My name is Sandulescu. Demetrius Sandulescu.” He took her left hand in his right and kissed it like a suitor asking for a dance. “I will be unable to join you for breakfast. I have dined already, and I need nothing more than a place to rest tonight. Thank you for your kind offer and I will sorely miss your morning company, but I will be gone before then.”
Marie watched him for a while longer as he stood outside. “May I,” he asked, beckoning toward the living room with his left hand, still holding her hand in his right.
“Yes, of course,” she said, taking her hand away and stepping aside to let him come in.
Demetrius Sandulescu stepped over the threshold of the Matheson doorway and closed the door behind him.

[woodpryan]

Demetrius

I read all that in the amount of time it takes to smoke a cigarette. Of course, I have a printed copy with double spacing, making for easier reading, but nonetheless; I will post the next three parts now. I hope you are all anticipating the next sections, wondering exactly who this Demetrius is and what he plans to do to the Mathesons. as soon as these next three sections finish, it's time to start flying through it... or at least I hope.


4

Sarah watched this conversation take place with rapt amazement. She saw a nice looking man, whose brown eyes reminded her of her kindergarten teacher, whom she had adored five years before. He had been wonderfully supportive of her when her father died and took every possible chance to accommodate her needs in the classroom. The man spoke in a strange manner which she had never heard before. She liked his lovely black hair and hoped that hers would be like that when she got older. Overall, she liked the man, but there was something about his teeth and his hands that slightly unnerved her. He had these odd, fingers that were all the same length (if the thumb is not counted) and the fingernails were extraordinarily long; about an inch off the tip of each finger. She had never seen anyone with fingers that were all the same length before. His teeth were stunningly white and straight but there was something strange about them that she couldn't quite wrap her head around. Surely, it was nothing, but she wondered.
She was still staring at the man, Demetrius, he had said, when her mother had turned around to face them all. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair was a little disheveled when she looked at them, her eyes far off as if she were in some kind of trance and Sarah was afraid for her. Then her eyes seemed to clear and she she seemed to come back to herself.
“Well, what are you all staring at?” she asked incredulously. “Sarah, it's time for bed. The rest of you, go to your own rooms and mind your own damn business. Don't stay up to late James, Samantha. The two of you have school in the morning.”

5

James was in his room on his bed, but he was not sleeping. His light was still on and the CD player had changed disks; Metallica's hard, driving riffs lost most of their momentous power with the volume at such a low level. James was not thinking about Metallica though, or even paying attention to them. He was thinking about Demetrius (if that was his real name) and not in the way anyone else in the house probably was.
James had read Bram Stoker's Dracula and Stephen King's Salem's Lot. He has seen the movies for both as well (which sucked harder than a vacuum cleaner compared to the epic novels) and he knew a vampire when he saw one. He had read enough vampire folklore to write his own novel about them, had even been thinking about it (it was probably something to work on when he got older and more skilled in his craft).
Sandulescu could not have made himself more obvious to James. He had seen his eyes, but only for a moment before he looked away from them (One could quite easily be hypnotized by the eyes of a vampire) and he had seen them flash red before turning to the deep blue that reminded him of his mother. Of course he had long beautiful hair. Ann Rice gotten that part exactly right. The fingernails were long and the fingers themselves were all the same size. Well, that one he couldn't explain with vampire folklore, but still; it was suspicious. The man had been well dressed as vampires always tend to be, and oh, those teeth. They were suspicious too. He could imagine Sandulescu's canines growing long, hooking into fangs. He could see them dripping with blood, his blood.
He got up and began to pace the room. Sandulescu's lips were even suspicious. They were the deep blood red that he had always read about. And the worst part was his skin. It was so pale and his cheeks were so gaunt. He must be hungry, James thought. He is on a stop between cities. He's going to turn everyone into vampires in some town down the line like that guy, Barlow in Salem's Lot. This was just a stop on his way to the next place. He would stay here tonight and he would feed.
Oh Christ, man. Get a grip, he told himself. You do this shit all the time. But this time it was different. This time it had to be real. Everything fit; everything he had read about, everything he had seen. It all fit.
He had to talk to someone about it. He couldn't talk to Mom; she would think he was crazy, making things up again, or both. She would tell him to go to bed and quit bothering her with such nonsense. Surely, she was probably asleep already anyway. Samantha would probably tell him to get the fuck out of her room as soon as he came in. Sarah was too young. That left only Corey and his room was right next to the guest room. He would have to be quite. If the vampire heard him, he would know he suspected and he would come for him right away. But what else could he do?
He opened his bedroom door and looked out into the hallway. All the lights in the house were out except for his own bedroom lamp. It shown a soft yellow glow into the hallway, but it faded before reaching the end of the hall where Demetrius was hiding (definitely not sleeping) in the last room. Samantha's room was beside his own and the stairway was directly in front of him. Corey's room was right next to the top of the stairs and his door was closed like Samantha's and the guest room. With bare feet, James tiptoed to his brother's room as quietly as possible.


6

Corey had never heard something so ridiculous in his life. James came up with some pretty crazy shit and he wrote some great stories (although he would never have admitted this to James' face, even if it meant his life) but this was beyond anything Corey thought his brother could have managed. Demetrius, a vampire? James had once confided in him that he thought the guy who was renting the guest room one night looked like the serial killer who's picture had been on the news. They had been looking for the guy for weeks and, Corey had to admit, he kind of did look like him. But the guy had slept soundly and moved on the next day without much of a word to them. Now this. What the fuck was the little moron smoking and why wasn't he sharing? Corey had been laying in bed when James came barging through his door without knocking (not that Corey didn't do that to James all the time) and he had barely had enough time to put his dick away before he came up to the bed an sat down. He had dried off his hand as nonchalantly as he could and pretended to listen, enraptured while James unfolded the most retarded idea he had ever had (which, Corey thought, was saying something for sure).
Apparently, the guy who was staying in the room right next to his own was a vampire. Har-de-har-har! Friends and neighbors, we have a winner! James Matheson has officially lost every last marble in his head! The kid was whispering as if he were afraid the guy was going to hear him and come kill them both. Corey was pretty sure the guy was asleep as he could hear him snoring in there. Last he checked, vampires didn't sleep at night and he was also pretty sure they didn't snore when they did sleep. As James finished whispering in his barely audible voice, Corey merely looked at him for a moment.
He laughed in James' face then, not kindly and James suddenly clapped his hand over his mouth hard, damn near slapping him to stop the sound of his laughter. He kept his voice low but his eyes were wide and serious, his voice inexorably stern and angry.
“Shut the fuck up, you god damn moron!” he whispered. This normally would have had the effect of angering Corey to the point of beating the crap out of the little snot nosed brat. But he saw the look in his brother's eyes and what it instilled in him instead was a fear which he had never felt. His heart fluttered in his chest and his stomach was suddenly full of butteries. But he remained calm, cool, collected as he spoke to his brother like a father telling a child that the monster in the closet is not really there.
“Look man, I think you better just go to bed and forget about this.” He was whispering too, but he no longer seemed capable of raising his voice above a whisper, now that the gravity of the situation was laying in his chest. “I don't care what you think about this guy. You better leave him the fuck alone and get some sleep. You've got school in the morning and it's already almost midnight.”
James started to protest but Corey held up a hand. “I don't want to hear it. Go to bed, let me sleep, and leave the guy alone.”
Corey thought he would protest again but then his eyes seemed to gain a resignation that said he was finished arguing. He got up and left the room.
As the door closed behind him, Corey began to really think about what James had said. Sure, he was a creepy guy with his weird same-length fingers and long fingernails. His pale skin was a little strange but, hell, some people just seemed completely unable to tan and were doomed to walk this earth as losers who would never get a chick in the sack. Still, though, James seemed pretty convinced of this guy's likelihood of being a vampire.
Corey no longer felt like getting off. He rolled over on his left side and suddenly became very aware of how dark his room was. The shadows seemed to creep in on him and enclose him. The moon was on the other side of the house and minimal light shone through his window. He also noticed for the first time, that the snores from the other room had stopped. He thought about those snores and it seemed to him, in retrospect, that they were completely and utterly fake, like a man pretending to be asleep, a killer feigning a gimp leg. Don't let the little dweeb scare you man. Quite being ridiculous. Vampires don't exist and that's all there is to it. Don't get scared.
But he was. The dweeb had, in fact, scared the shit out of him. He was shivering under the warm blankets and the darkness of the room was not helping anything. Suddenly he wished his father were still alive. If he were here, this man wouldn't be in his house at all. Mom never would have started renting out the room right next to his. He was scared alright and sleep was a while coming. When it did come to him, it was for the last time.

[woodpryan]

Demetrius

ah, we have now finished seeing the perspective of each person in the family and we know how each of them feels about him. we have a little backstory from everyone (mostly from our protagonist, James Matheson) and it is time to get this ball rolling. Here are the next two sections. I will post the rest after I gauge the response to what has been posted so far. Hopefully I have sucked you all in by now (the 40 people who have viewed this) and you are all ready to go to the next part. Her we go:

7

She had invited him in. James had been standing there at the top of the stairs willing her to turn him away, to tell him no. A vampire couldn't just come right into your house and kill you. You had to invite it inside. You had to say, “Yes, of course,” and step aside to let him in, which was exactly what his ignorant mother had done. James did not mean that his mother was stupid. No, people often confused the definitions of stupid and ignorant and it irritated James to no end. How was his mother suppose to know? She hadn't studied this since she was ten years old.
He had to stop resenting his mother for what she had done and think of something. Well, he couldn't just walk into the guy's room and stake him to death could he? Excuse me Mr. Sandulescu, could you just be still for a minute while I ram this stake through your heart? His father would have known what to do. Mark Matheson had been a good man and it had been from him that James had received his macabre interest in horror literature and movies. His father had been a horror buff himself. He and James would stay up late and watch horror films together; not just the new ones either. Although they watched Francis Ford Cappola's version of Dracula, which he had had the nerve to name Bram Stoker's Dracula, they had also watched the old black and white version with Bela Lugosi and they had watched Nosferatu together, trying to scare each other while the other was entranced in the movie.
Thinking of his father, James remembered that the man had been Catholic. His mother kept the crucifix in the kitchen, where she spent so much of her time. Sometimes she would take it out and hold it when she thought they wouldn't notice. She would hide it away as soon as one of them entered the room, pretending to be rattling around the kitchen while she wiped at her eyes. James had to have that crucifix. It was already twelve thirty and Demetrius could begin his work at any time. He would go downstairs and get it, bring it back up here, and hold it in bed, waiting for daylight. If Sandulescu never got up, great. But if he did, James would have protection and he would be ready to banish him from this house as soon as he made his move.
He got off the bed and turned off his CD player. Shut up for a minute Jimi, he thought, cutting Jimi Hendrix off in the middle of “Voodoo Chile”. He walked to the door and opened it slowly, trying not to make any noise. Of course, doors only seem to creak open while your trying to sneak out of your room quietly at night and his door was no exception, screaming in protest against being opened. He had turned off his lamp twenty minutes ago and there was no longer anything but the moon to illuminate the hallway. It was now very dark and James could barely see more than five feet in front of him. He wondered if he was alone in this passage. Was Demetrius maybe standing right outside of his bedroom watching him? No, James thought. If he were back there he would have already come for me. He's biding his time, waiting for everyone to go to sleep. It's easier that way.
He began to creep down the stairs slowly, still trying to make as little noise as possible. Of course, the stairs screeched loudly under his steps. If they creaked in the day time, James did not notice it. During the day, one is too busy thinking their thoughts and going about their day to notice those noises they hear so clearly at night. Each stair was like a blast of thunder in James' ears. He heard a creak upstairs and looked behind him, back up the stairs. Demetrius was standing there with his arms outstretched, his mouth open in a snarl, his teeth now long and pointed, dripping blood.
Of course, there was no such thing at the top of the stairs. There was, in fact, nothing up there at all. James looked on for a moment longer, sure that it would come back, then finished his long trek down the stairs.
In the living room, the darkness pressed against him like a living thing. It seemed to breath around him, obscuring shapes and forging them into sinister objects. The moon was on the back of the house and it shined very little light into the living room. He walked with his arms out in front of him like a blind man, feeling his way around a familiar apartment where the furniture has been rearranged. He felt the entrance to the dining room in his left hand. To his right, another door led to a hallway which held the rooms of, both his sister, Sarah, and his mother, as well as a bathroom. He opened the door to the dining room.
The dining room had no windows and was not just dark. In comparison, the living room was an airport runway. The dining room held a darkness so thick, not even shapes could be made out. This was where he would meet his end then. On his way to retrieve his protection, Demetrius would come upon him silently here in the dark, enfold him in his arms and take him. Those arms would be strong and James would stand no chance of resisting. He would draw his neck close to his mouth and suck his blood until his veins were as dry as the desert which surrounded them.
Then he found the door that led to the kitchen and stepped through. The kitchen had windows on the side of the house that saw the setting of the sun set each day and the moon was shining brightly into it. He had to make this quick. He could feel time passing almost as if it were a physical thing. The kitchen was spacious with a large pantry and many drawers and cabinets for storage. An electric stove stood on the far side from the door to the dining room and a sitting table sat directly in front of him. He moved to the left and went to the drawers surrounding the stove, dishwasher, and sink. The one in which his mother kept the crucifix was full of other stuff, mostly junk and it took him a while to find it. He could feel the time slipping away. He rooted around in the drawer, picking up boxes of paper clips, pens, pencils, envelopes, spare change...
He could feel Demetrius behind him. He was walking toward him through the darkness of the dining room. James rooted faster, scattering crap all around the drawer. Demetrius was closing the distance. He was surely in the moonlit kitchen by now. James didn't dare turn around, not without his crucifix, only looked faster, in a frenzy now. Finally his fingers closed on the crucifix just as Demetrius was reaching for his shoulder. James wheeled around, holding the crucifix in front of him, his lips peeled back in a sneer of triumph.
He brandished his crucifix at the sitting table. No one was there.

8

Demetrius was standing in the middle of the Matheson's guest bedroom, watching the moon and waiting for the members of this family to fall asleep. He did not do this because he had to. He could have overtaken all five of them, easily in the entrance of the house. He chose to take them in their sleep, simply because it was easier. All occupants of the household had now fallen into a deep sleep except for one who was roaming about the place, looking for some protection from him. The boy knew, but that was alright. While the boy slept, Demetrius would take him with ease, sucking his life's blood from his dying body until his veins collapsed and they shriveled up inside of him. He was not worried about the cross. He could look upon crosses all he liked, as long as they were not held by someone who believed with conviction in their power. Any religious object had this effect, not just crucifixes.
He did not plan to kill them all. He wanted the mother and the eldest sister. They would make powerful and wonderful companions. He would turn them, sleep here in the morning, hunt with his new friends, and then move on. He had no plans to stay in Shelton. Small towns are too quick to discover the nature of a vampire and he would be quickly driven out by the inhabitants.
Demetrius had not eaten in two days, not having a chance to take anyone last night as he had been traveling by train. He was more hungry than he had been in many years and he was beginning to feel impatient with the boy.
He sent his mind out to discover the state of the boy's own mind. It seemed as though the boy planned to remain awake all night, waiting for sunset, and hoping that Demetrius would not come to him. The boy was very afraid and that was not surprising considering what he suspected of the Matheson's guest. Now he sent another power to the boy, pushing him gently toward sleep. At first, the boy resisted, getting up and pacing the room. Demetrius pushed harder, forcing the boy to go back to his bed. He stood patiently, telling the boy to go to sleep for twenty minutes and, finally, the boy relented, falling into sleep like a dehydrated man falling into a stream of water. Everyone in the house slept now.
Demetrius smiled. He enjoyed playing with his victims before he took them helplessly into his arms and sank his teeth into their necks or their wrists. He had amazing power over women who were irresistibly attracted to him sexually. This did not mean that Demetrius had sex with the women he killed. But he often made them think that he planned to do exactly that, kissing them gently and gaining their trust more thoroughly before killing them. Demetrius changed forms now, becoming a smoke and moving under the door of the guest bedroom, wanting to make as little noise as he possibly could.

[woodpryan]

Re: The Shadowman

Crap! I didn't know he wrote a story called "The Boogeyman". I posted a story in the "On Writing" forum called "The Shadowman" which I am suspicious may be about the exact same thing. Can someone tell me where to find "The Boogeyman" and what it's about? If it is similar to my story, it will look like I ripped Sai King off... on a forum often visited by Stephen King fans. I've read much Stephen King and this story has slipped right passed me. Any help?

[Gris]

Re: THe Shadowman

It's from Night Shift.

A guy goes to a Dr. to tell the story of how he "murdered" his 3 children. He tells a story about how the Boogeyman killed them and how he either didn't try to stop, or couldn't stop, the 3 murders. How he even went so far as to move to a new home, but the boogeyman found them.

***ENDING***The Dr. he was talking to is actually the boogeyman and it's made quite clear that the father's grief and fear is what the boogeyman was actually after, more so than the lives of the children.

[woodpryan]

Re: The Shadowman

holy freakin crap! * wipes hand across forehead* His story is a million times better than mine. My story doesn't resemble his in the least tiny bit. Thank you for that. I'm no longer worried about it. But I am definitely going to have to pick up Night Shift. I've been meaning to. That's pretty awesome right there.

[Cujo56]

Re: The Shadowman

I honestly wouldn't worry about it either way. There are a lot of authors that have very similar ideas, each telling it in there own way.

[Jean]

Re: The Shadowman


I honestly wouldn't worry about it either way. There are a lot of authors that have very similar ideas, each telling it in there own way.
this is very true

woodpryan: would you like me to archive this thread, or to merge it with the thread where you posted The Shadowman (http://www.thedarktower.org/palaver/showthread.php?t=10623) for further discussion?

[woodpryan]

Re: The Shadowman

sure, you can go ahead and merge it. Thanks Jean.

[woodpryan]

Demetrius

Well, fuck it. I don't feel like leaving you guys in suspense any more. I know you are all gripping your chairs and eagerly awaiting the rest of the story

Here's the rest of the story. It picks up from here and moves along at a good speed from here on out. Enjoy.


9


Marie Matheson lay in bed an hour, as she often did since the death of her husband, before sleep finally came to her. She fought the depression well, keeping herself busy with the kids, with the house, with the spare bedroom. But at night, when the house was quiet and she was left alone with nothing but her thoughts, it would sometimes creep in on her like an old friend. Hello Marie, I sure did miss you. How are the kids?
And that was a good question wasn't it? She did her best to continue raising them as a single mother but she couldn't help but wonder if their father would approve of the way she was running this house without him. Samantha was a good girl and she had a good heart, but she didn't think that Mark would like any of the boys she had brought home. And she sure did seem to go through them quickly too. James was such a smart boy and she was sure that he would get one of those stories of his published some day. She could imagine her husband beaming at him as he handed his son the first acceptance letter from one of the magazines to which he was so often sending his manuscripts. She often wondered what to do about Corey, who seemed to be about as lazy as his Uncle Tommy except that Corey had not yet discovered the bottle as Tommy had. She pestered him every day to get off his lazy ass and get a job. He wasn't even in college. If he had been, it would have been alright that he didn't have a job and still lived with his mother. The death of his father had obviously impacted him in a harsh way and she tried not to be too hard on him. He wasn't the same as he once was.
Was it time to move on, she wondered. The man has been dead now for five years and she was not getting any younger. At thirty nine years old, she still had a few months left before she passed the forty mark. She felt in her heart that it was time to move on and begin dating again, but she was so worried about the kids. How would they react? They seemed to have moved on and accepted the fact of their father's death, but once a widow starts bringing a new man around, kids start acting funny, as if some one were invading their territory. With these thoughts on her mind, Marie drifted into sleep. She didn't notice a black mist, like smoke slipping beneath the frame of her bedroom door around one thirty a few hours later. As Demetrius materialized out of that smoke, still clad in his suit, Marie slept on, dreaming of Mark. He began to whisper her name. He said it five times and she began to stir, moaning in her sleep, her hands roaming over her own body.
“Wake up Marie. Wake up and see me now as I really am.”
Marie's eyes opened and she saw the beautiful man with the long black hair once again. His hat was off, apparently left upstairs in the guest bedroom and his eyes were the most amazing shade of red. She had never seen such eyes before and they fascinated and enchanted her, unable to take her own eyes away from them. “Demetrius,” she said. “I thought you would come.”
“I'm here Marie,” he whispered and walked, no glided toward her from the middle of the room. He came to the side of her bed and knelt beside her on one knee like a man proposing marriage. “You have known such loneliness, Marie.”
“Yes,” she said, staring at the red eyes.
“You are in a constant state of vexation.”
“Yes.”
“You are tired, worn out, almost used up at such a young and desirable age.”
“Yes,” she repeated. She was whispering it with reverence in her voice.
“I want to take that away, Marie. I want you to live a better life; a wondrous and exquisite life.”
“Yes.”
“Join me, Marie. Never again will you wonder if your husband is looking down on you, proud of the job you have done. Never again will you worry about growing old. Never again, shall you know fear or want. You shall live life eternal. You will never know pain or doubt. You will be one of us, the finest creatures on the planet. Your beauty shall be enhanced tenfold. ”
“Yes, yes,” she said, reaching for him. He got up and leaned over the bed, kissing her lips. She was a fine woman at the age of thirty nine. She had lost the weight after each of her children and had remained in good shape, aging well.
Demetrius kissed her lips and his were cold, yet so sweet and wonderful on her own. After five years without a single kiss from a man, her body was starved. He kissed her, moving on to her neck and she moaned. She could feel his long teeth beneath his lips and she moaned again. She wanted him and she wanted the teeth that she could feel behind those lips. She wanted him to bite her more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. He moved onto the bed, on top of her and he was not heavy. He was actually extraordinarily light for a man who stood past six feet tall and was well built. She wrapped her legs around him, her nightdress lifting up passed her knees and her hips. His lips were on her breast now and she wanted him inside of her.
“Please,” she said, moving her hips against him. She dared not reach for his belt; she would let this man go at his own pace.
“Your death will be the sweetest part of your life,” Demetrius said and opened his mouth wide. She saw the long pointed teeth and felt her desire for him double.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, please.”
When Demetrius bit her neck, she felt a short moment of pain, a sting like a needle going through flesh, then it was gone. What replaced it was a sweetness which had never been matched in her life. No simile could describe the way it felt to her. His lips were now very warm, rather than cold and there was a pleasant tingling sensation in the area around them. It wasn't a bad tingle like what you get if you sit in the wrong position too long and your leg falls asleep. It was magnificent. She heard something like music, not with her ears, but in her head; the most wonderful music she had ever heard. She began to drift as her body was drained of life. He did not take all of her blood; merely the least he could take and still leave her dying. He left her with the smallest grasp on life, barely breathing, heart beating feebly. Before the darkness of unconsciousness enveloped her, she heard him say, “Death is, for you my love, only the beginning. You will awaken tomorrow night with new life.” Then the darkness took her completely and she knew no more.
The blood that now ran through her veins was laced with something which was beginning its work immediately but would not finish for many hours to come. In a sense, it was a disease, one which would give life rather than death. A disease that would give the curse of eternal life. She had welcomed it with open arms and Demetrius had been delighted to oblige.

10

She was beginning to fear that maybe she was a slut. She was immediately attracted to Demetrius and not in a “oh, he's good looking” sort of way, but with a powerful desire that she could not explain, even to herself. He was tall and he had the most gorgeous light blue eyes that seemed to remind her of her first high school boyfriend, Thomas, whom she had fallen deeply in love with (as much as a fifteen year old girl can fall in love anyway). He had stood there just inside the doorway and he had looked up at her standing beside her mother and smiled at her. There had been something in that smile, with those perfect white teeth. It was a knowing smile. It seemed to tell her that he knew perfectly well exactly what thoughts were passing through her mind. His eyes had seemed to hypnotize her for the short moment that he looked at her and in that moment it seemed that she could drown happily in those eyes.
While she wanted him deeply, she was also afraid of him and the desire she felt for him. She saw a certain power behind those eyes that she could not quite place and she found those perfectly white and straight teeth to be very peculiar.
It wasn't just Demetrius either. She was cheating on the first really good guy she had dated since Thomas. She had known such kindness from Jimmy and he was such a wonderful gentleman. But Steve, with whom she was cheating, was so passionate. Her time with Jimmy was so bland compared to the rockets that seemed to fly with Steve and she was ashamed of herself. She wondered what Jimmy would say when she told him. He would be heart broken, she was sure. It would be tough and she would hate herself, but it had to be done.
She lay naked in bed, hoping for the first time since her mother began renting the spare room, that the man who slept inside of it would come to her in bed. This was, by no means anything she had ever felt before and it was like a weight on her chest.
She fell easily into sleep and he came to her in her dreams. He made love to her with such passion that everything she had been worrying about was wiped from her mind. She focused only on him and his wonderful skin (which, in her dream was actually not pale) and he thrust inside of her deeply.
When he entered her room while she slept, she was writhing in her bed, caught in the dream. He materialized out of his smoke form directly beside her bed and whispered to her as he had whispered to her mother only twenty minutes before. Samantha didn't take as long to awaken as Marie had. One whisper was enough and her eyes flew open wide. He was standing beside her bed now and he was not pale anymore. The color that now filled his skin gave him a beauty she could never have imagined. He stood before her in his black suit and his red lips were parted slightly to reveal long, sharp teeth. His eyes were a penetrating red that held her gaze as soon as her own fell upon them.
She had kicked the bedspread off of her in her sleep and her slender body was exposed to Demetrius, something that half the boys at Shelton High School would have died to see. She did not feel exposed to this man. She felt at ease with herself, not self conscious in the least, and all thoughts of right or wrong were wiped away from her mind so completely, it was as if they had never been there at all.
“Come to me Demetrius. Take me.”
“You are aware of what you ask Samantha?”
“Yes,” she said, and she was. She knew what he was now and she welcomed the thought of immortality. She would be forever beautiful, never age, never die. She would live with this marvelous man for all of eternity and they would make love with a passion that could never be matched by any mortal man.
Demetrius did not climb into the bed. He floated up and over her, looking down at her from a distance of a few feet. His hair did not fall from behind his shoulders but remained on his back. “I will give you what you want Samantha. You shall join us, the greatest creatures that have ever walked the earth, and you shall never parish,” he whispered to her.
“Yes,” she said, as her mother had before her. He came down to her and she spread her legs open for him as he rested on top of her, kissing her. Lips like a sweet dream. Hands on her breasts, on her stomach, on her thighs. Warm hands on her body. Lips on her neck, kissing softly. A soft moan escaped her lips. His tongue caressed her skin lightly and it was warm and sweet. Fangs sank into her neck and it was painful for a moment. A soft cry tried to escape her throat, but no sound came out at all; only a quick exhalation. Her hands on the back of his neck, holding him to her own. A lover caught in excruciating passion. Dying now. She could feel it happening, welcomed it. This was the beginning, not the end. She drifted, the disease which coursed her mother's veins now running through her own.

11

James fought sleep for as long as he could holding his crucifix in his right hand on his chest. Normally he listened to music while he waited for sleep but tonight he wanted complete silence and he wasn't trying to sleep anyway. He waited, hoping that Demetrius would not come out of the guest room, hoping beyond hope that he was wrong. He would lay awake all night, wait for sunrise and be relieved when the sun shone through his window and he knew that Demetrius was gone. But he wasn't just fighting sleep. It seemed as though sleep were fighting him, as though something was making him fall into it, become trapped by it. He fought it, getting up and pacing the room. But as he looked at his bed, it seemed so warm and comforting and he lay back again. He still tried to fight it laying in his bed, but he was not strong enough and he fell into a deep sleep as Demetrius began to roam his house, taking his first victim.
He awoke to the screaming of his brother. He heard it very clearly in his mind and he came up from sleep like a diver who realizes he has gone too deep and kicks frantically for the surface. He came up and his brother's screams were like nails on a chalkboard. He clutched for his crucifix and for a moment he was filled with panic as he searched the sheets for it. He laid his right hand on it and he felt a power jolt through his arm like an electric shock. He sat up in bed, eyes wide, heart beating frantically, stomach full of butterflies, head swimming in a whirlwind of thought.
Demetrius was taking his brother. Who else had Sandulescu taken tonight? He did not hear his older sister stirring in the next room and knew with the sense only a brother could know, that she was already dead. Should he check to make sure? Samantha and James' rooms were separated only by a bathroom and he would have to go passed Corey's room to get there. If he passed Corey's room, he felt sure that the vampire would come to him while he shook his dead sister, attempting to wake her. No, she was dead. He knew it in his very soul. He had to go downstairs to protect his mother and younger sister. He hesitated no longer, bolting from the bed and running down the stairs, not trying to be quiet now and his brother's screams stopped when James reached the living room. He was dead.

12

Corey awoke with a start and Demetrius was standing in his doorway, the door closed. He hadn't opened it. He had just slipped underneath it in a mist or smoke form. Of course. His brother had been right and Demetrius was here now to kill him. The vampire's eyes were glowing red in the dark and his long hair swam about his face like a shadow. His skin was no longer pale and he knew that the vampire had already visited other members of his family. Corey's bladder let go, soaking his boxers shorts. He began to scream and got up on the bed, trying to put as much distance between himself and Demetrius as possible. But he had nowhere to go. Demetrius was between him and the door and he was on the second floor. He thought briefly about just jumping through it, glass crashing down around him as he fell to the ground below, meeting his death by a more natural means than this thing had to offer. He couldn't bring himself to do it. His screams were not words like “no” or “please” but short, fast utterances of negation, tearing at his throat.
The vampire did not waist any more time. Demetrius came to him on the bed with a speed that was wondrous to behold. He was like an animal, a cheetah that needed no time to gain momentum before it reached top speed. Demetrius moved so fast James was barely able to see it and he reached the bed in less than a second. The first thing Demetrius did was not bite him but slash at his stomach with his sharp fingernails, spilling blood onto the bed in sheets.
“Stop that moronic blathering,” he growled, “and take your end like a man.”
He did not, though. He jumped from the bed and ran for the door. But the vampire's speed was unearthly and he was in front of him, between himself and the door again in a flash. Corey fell to his knees and begged for his life.
“Please don't!” he screamed. “please, I won't tell anyone! Please!”
Demetrius had heard enough. He didn't want this vile excuse for a man's blood to even touch his lips. He did not want to bite him.
Demetrius Sandulescu, who had been alive when Dracula was slaughtered in his own home, grabbed the vile thing before him and lifted him from his knees. He screamed again and Demetrius stopped the screams as he plunged his nails into his throat, severing the arteries there and squirting blood all over himself as well as the walls and the floor. He held on while the vile thing kicked, doing an air dance like a man hanging himself, until he moved no more. Demetrius cast the body aside, into a corner of the room like a rag doll, opened the door (no more need to sneak around) and walked out of the room without wiping the blood from his face.

13

James ran through the living room and chose the door set into the right side of the room this time, rather than the left. This door opened on a hallway where a guest bathroom was the first door and his sister's room was the next door. His mother's room was the last door in the hall and it was the largest room in the house. James would go to his sister's room first. While he was worried about his mother, logically, it made more sense to tend to Sarah first. He opened the door knowing in his heart that she would be laying still on her bed, dead as Samantha and Corey upstairs.
But she wasn't. She was sitting up in bed with her eyes wide, staring at him with such fright his heart broke for her a little. No time. He ran to her and scooped her up. She began to cry in his arms, something she used to do when she was younger, right after their father had died and she would climb the stairs to his room and sleep with him after a nightmare.
“Shh,” he said. “It's going to be OK Samantha. Don't worry, I'm going to protect you.”
“I heard the most awful screaming James! Was that screaming?”
“Yes, it was Samantha. Don't think about that right now. I've got you now. You're going to be alright.”
“It was terrible,” she said and buried her face in his chest, moistening his shirt with her tears.
“Don't worry Sarah. It's OK.” He continued to sooth her as he walked to his mother's room. She was a light sleeper and as he approached her door he knew. If she hadn't awoken at the sound of Corey's screams she had already been taken. She was dead.
He opened the door and looked inside. She wasn't moving. He walked to her bed on stiff legs anyway, hoping he was wrong. He tried to set his sister down, but she clung to him.
“Sarah, I've got to check on mom. I need to put you down. Don't worry, I'll protect you,” he said, rubbing her hair with his hand. She allowed him to set her down and he looked down at his mother. There were two windows in her room and they let in enough moonlight for him to see her with more clarity than he ever would have wanted to.
She was not breathing. Her cheeks were not pale in death and blood had not pooled at the bottom of her body as it normally does in a corpse. She was lovely in death, her skin full of color and her hair was thicker, the gray gone.
He shook her, trying to wake her. She wouldn't move. Her right arm slipped from the bed and knocked on the hardwood floor. The finality of that sound wrenched James' heart from his chest and he screamed without words. Now his mother, father, and two older siblings were dead. His mother would not remain so, however. He could see that death was not the end for her and that broke his heart even more. A hand fell on his shoulder and he wheeled around.
He stared Demetrius Sandulescu directly in the face. He was covered in blood. It dripped from his teeth and his chin. It coated his long black hair. His eyes were red now, he saw and as he looked into them, his pain began to slip away from him. He welcomed it. Let it come then. He would be one of them. He would walk the earth forever, praying the night.
“NO!” he screamed and thrust the cross out in front of him, touching the vampire's left cheek with it. The skin sizzled beneath the crucifix like bacon on a grill and Demetrius screamed, grabbing James by the shirt with his right hand. His claws tore at his shirt and scratched his flesh drawing blood from his chest. The vampire threw him across the room with astonishing strength and he landed against the far wall with a crash. The front of his shirt was in tatters and covered in his own blood. He held the cross out in front of him, a symbol of good, and he could feel the immense power in it flooding his right arm. Demetrius backed up against the wall opposite him, knocking over a lamp and sending it crashing onto the floor. The power of the crucifix was washing down his arm in a wave and suddenly he felt it engulf his entire body. He advanced on the vampire as his sister ran toward him, getting behind him like a shield.
“Stand back in the name of god, the father, the son, and the holy spirit! I command you!”
“Boy,” he said, “You have such strength in you. Such intelligence. You make a formidable enemy. But I assure you, you would make an even more powerful ally. The two of us could be great together, James. You could be so much more than you are now.”
James saw his eyes and was transfixed by them. A powerful ally, yes. He could see himself as a vampire, a beautiful, powerful being. He would take new victims each night, dining on their blood like fine wine. He would never die. It all made perfect sense.
He began to lower the cross and the vampire grinned at him. That grin was too much for James and with all the will he could summon, he looked away from the red eyes of the vampire.
He raised his cross again and felt that power surge through his arm once more. The vampire screamed in terrible pain and threw his arms out in front of him like a shield to block the sight of the cross. He changed forms, his cloths tearing from his body and falling to the floor in ruins, his skin darkening to a shade of brown, his body growing taller and his arms attaching themselves to his back with a long webbing that made a winglike structure. He morphed before Jame's eyes into a huge bat. The Demetrius thing screeched at him in an unspeakable cry that seemed to tear at his ear drums. It tried to step forward but could come no closer to him holding his cross in front of him.
“In the name of Christ, I command you to leave this house!” James screamed and his voice echoed around the room with tremendous force and power, as if the voice of god had filled his throat. “I revoke the invitation of entry my mother has given. On her behalf, as her next living relative, I revoke the invitation! Leave this place and never come back here again!” The vampire screamed and stepped forward, coming toward James and the cross burned in his hand with a white light that filled the room. The vampire backed away from him again, holding up his arms to shield his face.
“You live today,” screamed at him in it's terrible, inhuman voice. “I will come back for you! I have lived for centuries and I will not be bested by a mere boy!”
The vampire spread out his arm-like wings beside him like Christ on the cross and vanished into thin air. James kept his cross held out in front of him as if he still needed to ward him off. His sister suddenly burst into tears behind him and he turned to tend to her, never dropping the cross.

14

“What are you doing,” Sarah asked, timidly as James turned over the large kitchen table. It crashed on the hardwood dining room floors with a boom. The table was solid mahogany and its legs would serve his purpose perfectly. He needed only two of the legs. He had seen his brother already and he was not going to rise up tonight. His brother had been fortunate.
“I need these table legs,” he said. “I want you to do something for me.” He took her shoulders in his hands and squatted down to be eye level with her. He looked into them and spoke with conviction. “I need you to go outside and sit on the porch. Don't come inside, no matter what you hear.” She was shaking her head violently from side to side in a gesture of denial.
“Listen to me,” he said and his voice was hard now, cold. “They can't get you in the day time. He's not coming back. He's long gone Sarah, and he can't get you now. Trust me. I'm your brother and I'm doing this to protect you. Don't come inside. You may hear terrible things, screams. It may sound like I'm in danger in here. No matter what happens, don't come inside. I'll come out when I'm finished.”
“I love you James,” she said and the power of those words almost brought fresh tears to his eyes. He could feel them stinging just behind the lids. He held it back. He had done enough of that today. It was time to be strong. The work ahead would be the worst thing he would do in his life, but it had to be done. He could not live knowing that two of his family were feeding on the innocent night after night.
“I love you too, Sarah. Now, please do as I say.”
She turned and began to walk away slowly with her head down. She stopped and turned around to look at him again. “Promise me,” she said.
“Promise you what Sarah?”
“Please be careful. I don't know what I'll do without you James. I'll be all alone.”
“I promise,” he assured her. “Nothing is going to happen to me. I'll see you in no more than two hours. I'll be out there for sure before nightfall.”
She nodded, satisfied. She walked across the living room and opened the front door, where Demetrius had stood the night before, asking to be let inside.
A long handled ax, a hatchet, his father's hammer, a cross, and a bundle of his mother's garlic from the pantry were laid out in a row beside him on the floor. He picked up the ax and began to hack legs off the kitchen table. The hatchet would make fine stakes out of these legs.


15

Marie Matheson woke up in the early hours of the morning with her skin burning. She couldn't understand what the problem possibly could have been at first. Then she realized that the sunlight was showing through the window and falling on her legs. The skin felt like it was on fire there. Her stomach hurt worse than it had when she got food poisoning nineteen years ago and her head felt like it was going to explode. She knew that she had changed. She saw the world differently now. Her room stood out clearly, the lines the walls made finely drawn, the colors of the comforter standing out with a brilliance that was astonishing. She could hear everything. A bird chirping outside was like a foghorn in her ears. The sound of her two remaining children breathing in the living room where they must be sleeping was clear to her.
But her legs! They were beginning to emit small amounts of steam now. She felt so sick, she was not sure she could get up to close her curtains, which were black and thick and would block out the sun nicely. Samantha had the same curtains in her room as well. She reached out for the curtains from the bed as if she could touch them from ten feet away and willed them closed. And they did close. She closed the curtains on the window that faced West first, then the ones that faced South.
Immediately she began to feel better. Her skin was cooling off now and her headache was beginning to subside a little. Her stomach still hurt but she was sure that this would fade by the time she woke tonight and she was sure that Demetrius would be in her bedroom waiting for her when she did.


16

As James finished making the second of his two stakes, he thought about the irony of the situation. He would be using his father's hammer to kill his mother for one thing. Also, this table had been built by his father. On one of the legs that he chopped off the table, there was an inscription carved into it. It said M. MATHESON. While he hacked on that leg with his hatchet, he took extra care to make sure that the name was not lost. He would be killing his mother and his sister with legs from a table built by his father and a hammer which may have even helped to built the table.
His father, having died when James was eleven had never had the chance to teach him to shave or drive, had not been able to give him advice about relationships or love. He had not been there when James wrote his first short story or when he sent his first magazine submission. Now his mother had ruthlessly been taken from him and he would never know her love or comfort again, never feel her warm embrace or smell her perfume again. His mother and his sister were now vampires and he must be the one to kill them.
But was he really killing them? No, Demetrius had done that last night. He had crept into their rooms and taken them one after the other. No, he wasn't killing them; he was freeing them. Freeing them from a life in which they would be a slave to the blood they craved, like a drug addict looking for the next fix. And when he was finished, he would go to the police and he would confess to it all. A life sentence in prison was better than trying to be a fugitive with his ten year old sister. He would tell them how he had killed all three of them and then lost his nerve before he could do his sister too.
He got up and picked up his crucifix (and it was his crucifix now) and put it in his front pocket. He didn't know if he would need it, but it was best to be safe. Next he picked up the hammer and put the handle into his pocket; the head poked out over the top of his jeans. Then he picked up the ax and the garlic in one hand, dangling the sack of garlic from it's pull string, and the two stakes in the other. They were thick and heavy and he had to hold them against his stomach. He walked from the dining room into the living room. He turned left into his mother's hallway and to her bedroom, ax and garlic swinging at his side.
Inside her room, he noticed that at some point, she had actually gotten up out of bed and closed her thick black curtains. Very little light shone through the curtains, but it was enough for him to work by. He dropped the ax and the bag of garlic in the doorway, walked to the edge of her bed, and knelt beside her, letting the stakes tumble from his arms onto the floor. He picked up her right hand in his own and held it tightly. It was cold to the touch. God, what do you say to your mother before you drive a fucking stake through her heart? He couldn't find words. His mother had been a wonderful woman. She had run a strict household and she had done so well for them after the death of James' father. He could remember her singing to him at his bed when he was a child. Nothing you could say could take me away from my guy. Nothing you could do, cuz I'm stuck like glue to my guy. She would never do that again. Every time he heard that song from now on, he would probably cry like a baby. Tears slipped over his eyelids now and James Matheson sobbed, crying for his mother as well as his sister.
She was so beautiful in death. Death seemed to have given her back ten years of her life and all the struggles of raising four kids by herself for five years. Maybe I should just leave her alone, he though. Maybe she will be alright as a vampire. The thought in itself horrified him and he picked up the first stake. M. MATHESON.
He placed the steak over her breast with his left hand and grabbed the handle of the hammer out of his other pocket, laying it on the bed for the time being. He removed the cross from the same pocket and transferred it to his shirt pocket so that he could reach it easily in case he needed it. He picked up the hammer and brought it up over his head.
He hesitated.
“I love you mother,” he said.
James Matheson brought the hammer down on the stake with all his force, driving it into his mother's heart. What blood remained in her body shot from the wound in jets, gushing and splattering his face, soaking his tattered shirt, his arms, the ceiling, the walls, the bed spread. Her eyes opened wide and she screamed in an inhumane wail of agony as James drove the stake in further. “James, no!” she screamed. “Please, your killing me James!” She reached for him with her long fingernails which had become sharp, trying to scratch him.
He pulled the crucifix from his shirt with his left hand, the stake protruding from her chest of its own accord. He held the crucifix in front of her face, feeling that power surge through his arm once more and she hissed at him like an angry cat, laying back against the blood stained bed again. He kept the crucifix in front of her face with his left hand and she was screaming in agony, begging him to stop while he drove the stake in further.
He did not listen. He drove the stake in through her back with one final blow from the hammer as his mother's hand reached for him. It remained in the air for few seconds, dripping with her own blood, then it fell limp on the bed.
James was still crying for his mother. Even as he did what had to be done, he was weeping for her and he hated himself for what he had done. In that moment he wished the vampire had spared him this misery by tearing him apart as he had done his brother. He was covered in his mother's blood and there were two clean lines where the tears ran down. James did not hesitate once he began however. He picked up the ax. He had to finish the job.
James lifted the ax in both hands and, screaming wildly, swung it over his head. It swung in a wide arch and severed his mother's head cleanly. Little blood escaped the wound in her neck as most of it had either been drank by Demetrius or spilled all over him and the room. His mother's head fell off the bed onto the floor and he looked down into her staring eyes. He screamed then, lifting his face to the sky and wailing like a man dying, screaming at god or whoever could hear him. He had no more tears to cry for her and just screamed with the image of her dead glassy eyes, which stared at nothing imprinted on his mind. That image would remain with him forever. He sank to his knees before her head and stayed that way for some time, crying tearlessly.
Finally, he opened the sack full of garlic and got retrieved two cloves of it. He picked up his mother's head and she didn't look so good in death any more. She looked old and used up. Her skin was so cold in his hands. He stuffed the two cloves of garlic into her mouth, shoving them in as far as he could and placed her head back on the bed between her legs, as is custom in the killing of a vampire. He left the M. MATHESON stake in her chest. He looked up again, wondering if his father was looking down on him now, proud of his son for not flinching in the face of evil and fear. For setting his wife free to join him.
James put the handle of his hammer back in his pocket, picked up his remaining stake, and picked up his ax. He had to do it one more time before he could begin his new life as a prisoner and his sister could begin her new life as an orphan. He dreaded it as he had never dreaded anything before it.

17

James set his sister free in much the same way he had done so with his mother, crying tearlessly and hating himself. When he finally finished, he went into the kitchen and called the police. His voice was very dead, flat, and unreal to him in his own ears. He had told them his family was dead and that he had killed them himself. He said that he wanted to turn himself in and that he would be outside the house. They tried to keep him on the phone while the police were on their way but James had already hung up.
He went to the garage and found the gas can where he expected it to be, hanging on its hook among the other tools. It had plenty of gas in it and he started in the kitchen, splashing it over the sitting table, on the counters, on the floor and the walls. He made his way through the dining room, dowsing the ruined dinner table, which had room for six chairs but had only held six for the last five years. He moved into the hallway of his mother and sister's rooms now, splashing gasoline on the walls and floor. He did not actually go into those rooms. There was no need. He went back to the stairs and climbed them backward, pouring gas out in front of him as he went. He poured gas in his own room then went down the hall with the can, dowsing the carpet. Now the gas can was empty and he threw it down the stairs, crashing along the walls and coming to rest in front of the door.
He went into his room one final time and looked around at his books, his posters of bands and horror legends, his CDs, his manuscripts. It would all burn now. He went to his backpack and opened the front pocket, removing a pack of Marlboro cigarettes (look at me dad) and a Zippo lighter. He never smoked in the house as his mother would notice the smell right away. He could not imagine what she would do if she had found out.
He went downstairs languidly, as if in a dream and put a cigarette in his mouth. He opened the door and stepped out onto the front porch where his sister awaited him. A look of amazed disbelief was mixed with relief and distrust on her ten year old face.
“I'm still me,” he said, and she ran to him, hugging him tightly. “Come on,” he said, putting his left arm around her. He flipped the top of the Zippo open and struck a flame. He lit his cigarette, inhaled deeply, then, turning his head back and walking forward onto the steps at the same time, flung the lighter into the house where it burst into flames as James life had burst into flames in a single night.

May 24, 2010

[woodpryan]

Re: Demetrius

I had my fiance read over this and I have a few edits already working in my head. Since I'm too tired to write right now (haven't slept in 24 hours), it will have to wait until tomorrow though. Between her feedback and whatever I get here, hopefully I can fix anything that may need more detail for the reader to picture or whatever else can be done to it.

[Jean]

Re: Demetrius


Well, fuck it. I don't feel like leaving you guys in suspense any more. I know you are all gripping your chairs and eagerly awaiting the rest of the story

Well, actually we were. I personally was waiting for you to post the end; now I can read the whole.

[woodpryan]

Re: Demetrius



Well, fuck it. I don't feel like leaving you guys in suspense any more. I know you are all gripping your chairs and eagerly awaiting the rest of the story

Well, actually we were. I personally was waiting for you to post the end; now I can read the whole.

eh, i was just messin around. i hadn't slept in 24 hours, so my sarcasm meter was high.

[woodpryan]

Demetrius

Well, I've finished the edits that my fiance suggested. The story is just about finished. I'm just waiting on more responses from my first readers to see if there is anything else i need to change. i'm posting the story in full now.




1

On the outskirts of Shelton Texas, a rather large house was once a home to a family of five; a widow raising four kids with money from her inheritance from her husband. By all accounts, they were a normal, average American family. Three of the children, having not finished school, attended daily and their mother rented out their spare bedroom to bring in extra money in addition to her sizable inheritance. They had grieved the loss of the man that had been a wonderful father and husband and they had, for the most part, moved on with their lives as best they could. But on a cool night in July, this house had an evil thrust upon it, the likes of which they never before could have possibly imagined. That house is now a ruin of it's former self, blackened from the fire that was the only means by which the stains of blood could have been removed from its walls.
It had been a ridiculously hot day, the temperature rising over one hundred degrees and one could have cooked their eggs on the sidewalk (if they were interested in sidewalk eggs, that is). One could look off into the distance and see a mirage simmering above the ground like the glimmer of water.
After finishing school for the day, James Matheson spent most of his afternoon and evening reading. As his favorite form of entertainment, James read as often and as much as he could; on the bus to and from school, during classroom free time, at home while his siblings watched television, in waiting rooms, and everywhere he could. He often carried a mass market paperback in his back pocket so that he could quickly become engulfed in the land of horror fiction once again. James had read everything Stephen King ever wrote, as well as much of Bram Stoker's work, Shirley Jackson, Ray Bradbury and countless others. When he sat down to watch a movie, it would most likely be an adaptation of a novel he had just finished.
The walls of his bedroom were plastered with posters from hard rock bands and horror movies. The members of Metallica glared at him from one of these posters and Freddy Krueger brooded from another, his long-nailed glove in front of his burned, twisted face. On the wall with the door to the hallway, a long book case covered all of it except for the door. Many hardback first editions (inherited from his father) were displayed on it. A television stood across from the bed against one wall and a desk sat next to the window, an old Underwood typewriter standing on it's weathered and splintered surface. James had inherited the desk and typewriter from his father as well. This is where James sat as the night enveloped the town, bringing an odd cool with it that unnerved him a little.
That cool didn't seem natural to him. It was strange to go from such a hot day to such a cool night, he thought. It seemed sinister and unreal to him. And such was his nature. His imagination was a powerful tool which was always kept sharp.
He sat at his typewriter with a clean sheet of paper rolled into it, looking out the window as if hoping for some sort of inspiration. His shirt was off and when he pushed up the window to let in a light breeze, it felt like a blessing on his skin, which had been sweating all day. He lived on the second story of his mother's rather large and isolated house and the heat rose up to his room all day, making him sweat like a cold glass of water on a hot day. Slipknot was on his CD player (this was also helpful for inspiration) and he was ready to tackle a new short story, beat it into submission, and make it lie still on the pages.
There was no girl in his life and he was not particularly interested in finding one. What he was interested in was writing good fiction and he felt as though nothing could slow him down. He would be the next Stephen King (at the very least, the next Dean Koontz), he thought. He sent his short stories off to fantasy, horror, and literary magazines often and he felt that it was only a matter of time before he received his first acceptance letter.
As he began brainstorming his next story, his brother burst through the bedroom door. At nineteen years old, James wondered if Corey was ever going to move into his own place or if he would live with his mother forever. He was the oldest of Marie Matheson's children, but sometimes he seemed the least mature of them.
“Whatcha doin' bro?” he asked, striding over James' red carpeted floor to look at his typewriter. “Writing another lame ass story James? Gonna submit it to another lame magazine and add to your collection?” He pointed at the spike on James' desk where he had stabbed all his many rejection slips. Corey seemed unaware of the irony in calling his brother lame. He sported a week's worth of stubble on his cheeks and his black hair was shaggy, sticking up in the back. With no job, Corey laid around on the couch on most days trying to get his mother off his back and watching TV.
“Corey, c'mon man. Leave me alone, alright? I had some good ideas going until you came barging in here.”
“Dude, you've never had a good idea in your life. Your little dweeb stories are all stock. An original idea has never crossed your idiot head.”
“Go fuck yourself man,” James said. “You're so lame, you don't even have your own place and you're nineteen already.”
“I've been looking around at a few apartments, man. There are some places downtown with some pretty good prices and I've been thinking about moving out there.”
“Yeah, like your going to get a place with no job. Fucking moron.” James' voice sounded exasperated.
“Why don't you get a job? You're sixteen now. You can work. You're too lame even to wash dishes at Jamie's Steak House. You'll just write rip off stories for the rest of your life and never get laid,” Corey said, unaware that he would die, both a nineteen year old virgin and begging for his life on his knees.
“I like James' stories,” Sarah said from the doorway in an indignant voice of which only a ten year old girl seems to be capable. Sarah was the youngest of the Matheson children.
James got up from his chair, beaming at Sarah (his favorite sibling by far) and walked toward her, thankful for the interruption. “Thanks, Sarah. Give me five,” he said, putting out his hand.
She slapped it with her own small hand and smiled, where a few adult teeth were beginning to show themselves. Her blue eyes sparkled with delight at her brother's companionship. Her black hair was chest length and freshly washed. She wore the nightgown of a little girl who wants to show how much she is growing up.
“Don't you think it's about time to go to bed?” he asked. Since his father died, James had been the one to take on the role of “man of the house”, a position which should have gone to Corey had he been mature enough to take on the responsibilities.
That was when an interruption came that no one had been expecting. A triple knock came at the door, brisk, firm, and loud. The three of them jumped, heads snapping toward the sound. James' heart jumped into his throat and pounded there, his mind already racing with what monsters could be requesting entry into their dwelling.
“What the fuck,” Corey said, his bushy eyebrows coming together in the middle of his forehead. “It's almost ten o' clock.”
James' mind had stopped racing with fantastical musings of what could be at their door and had settled on a more logical, probable answer. “It's probably Samantha's boyfriend,” he said with obvious disdain in his voice.
Sarah turned from him and began to pelt down the stairs to the door (she liked Samantha's boyfriend as she seemed to like everyone), not quite reaching it before her mother. James and Corey walked out of the room behind her and stood at the top of the stairs looking down at the front door. Slipknot continued in James' room.

2

Samantha was the only one in the family who had seen the man coming toward the house as she was looking out her bedroom window with it's black curtains parted to let in the moonlight when the stranger showed up. She had the room in the back corner of the house, the upstairs bathroom standing between her room and James'. The man had walked (no, walked wasn't the right word, she thought. He had seemed to glide) through the cool night air toward the back of the house. She had been thinking about her boyfriend and wondering how to break up with him. Samantha was seventeen years old and easily one of the most beautiful girls at Shelton High School. Her long, dyed blond hair, her long slender legs, thin hourglass figure, and large (for a seventeen year old) bust made her highly sought after, and she loved the attention it gained her.
She was coming to realize, however, that she enjoyed that attention too much. After the death of her father, Samantha, unknowingly had a crisis in which she sought desperately to replace the man. She had dated steadily in middle school and seemed to go through a boyfriend every couple months, rarely remaining single. When she lost her virginity at the age of sixteen, she had undergone another sort of crisis, during which, she wanted sex more often than is normal for a teenage girl.
She would tell him tomorrow, she thought. She couldn't keep going on lying; he had to know. Jimmy was a good person though, and it would be horribly difficult and, at the same time, somewhat relieving to finally get this off her chest. He was smart, funny, charming, and he certainly had his head on straight. She liked him a lot (even told him that she loved him) and she felt terrible about cheating on him. But dear god, was he terrible in bed. Steve made her feel like a woman while Jimmy made her feel like a teenager (which she did not like to admit she was); in the bedroom anyway. Outside of the bedroom, Steve didn't have a brain in his head and probably would never amount to anything. Samantha was seventeen though. She had plenty of time to worry about settling down with someone who was going somewhere in life. She would tell him everything, she decided. And that was when she noticed the man, walking toward her house.
She put down the Cosmopolitan she had been looking at (but not reading) and watched him approach. She immediately noted the fluid manner in which he walked. He had a certain sophistication about him, which she admired and she hoped that he was coming here to rent the extra room. It was always in the paper that they had the extra room for rent. It only cost them forty dollars a week to keep the ad running and they often made two or three hundred off it each week. As he approached the back of the house, he looked up at her and for a moment she was frightened. Something about his eyes was strange. She couldn't quite put her finger on it. She almost could, and then it was gone. The man smiled at her and she noticed that his lips were a blood red that made her heart flutter with desire for him. Jesus, she thought. I never should have given up my virginity. I'm becoming a slut. The man removed his hat (a black fedora), placed it on his chest, and gave her a little bow, never even breaking his stride.
Other than the fedora, the man was wearing a black suit with a blood red tie that almost perfectly matched his lips and a white work shirt. His shoes shined in the bright summer moonlight and he wore black socks (or so she supposed; she was sure she would be able to see them from here if they had been white) and black slacks. She saw that he had extremely long, shining, and beautiful black hair which flowed to the middle of his back.
She gave him a little wave back and a smirk he probably couldn't see from his vantage point and she watched him make his way to the back of the house. She got up from the bed and moved closer to the window so she could watch him as he moved around to the side of the house, either headed for the street or their front door. She walked around her bed and turned off her CD player, cutting off Lady Ga Ga in mid sentence and opened the door. She stood there for a minute waiting and, just as she was about to close it again, the rapid triple knock came at the door. Delighted, she walked down the hallway, past her brothers and followed her sister down the stairs to greet the stranger.

3

Marie Matheson was cleaning the kitchen and thinking of her late husband when the knock came at the front door. She had inherited this house as well as a large sum of money from the man to whom she had been married for twenty years. They had met in high school in 1988 and they had hit it off right away. Her mother had liked him from the start and her father had taken some convincing, as all fathers seemed to need. But it had not taken him long to come to like Mark (as much as any father could, considering the boy in question was banging his daughter) and it had taken Marie even less time to fall deeply in love with him. They had married at a small church in Shelton and she had given him his first son at the age of nineteen. Soon after she birthed their first daughter, they had acquired this house. Mark's ambitions had been great, but his determination had been greater. He had inherited money from his father (not much, but enough) and had invested it wisely in real estate, which he sold with what seemed like supernatural ease.
Mark may have been a genius when it came to real estate speculation but he wasn't too savvy when it came to keeping himself in good health. When she married him at the age of eighteen, he had been smoking a pack a day, but by the time he died of heart disease, he was putting away two packs a day. They didn't call them cowboy killers for nothing. She had loved him unconditionally until they put him in the ground five years ago; their youngest daughter, Sarah, having only been with them for five years then. He had invested his retirement money as wisely as he had invested in real estate, and she would be able to live for the rest of her life with it as long as she spent it sparingly and wisely. The house had been paid off when he died and the extra bedroom that they had been planning to fill with one more child had to go to some sort of use.
She began renting it out to strangers, mostly train hoppers who paid what they could. They would hop the train on it's way to or from El Paso and come to her house asking for a place to stay. The going rate on her room was fifty dollars a night and she included dinner as well as breakfast in that price. She would take their fifty dollars, fill them up, let them sleep, fill them up again, and send them on their way. If they didn't have much money and the room wasn't taken up for the night she would sometimes let them stay anyway, as long as she was in a good mood when they got there and as long as they showed some good manners. On this particular night, she was expecting the room to remain empty, as usually the train hoppers came in around eight o' clock and the ones who were passing through came in a little earlier. It was almost ten o' clock and she was about to go upstairs and coax Sarah into going downstairs to bed when the knock came at the door.
Who the hell... she thought, walking briskly to the door. Sarah was running down the stairs to the door with the apparent intention of opening it. As Marie reached the door and put her right hand on the knob, she put out her left hand in a “stop” gesture to stay her daughter's momentum. The girl stopped abruptly and looked at her with anticipation and glee in her eyes. Marie wasn't so quick to be happy about receiving such a late call and was more apprehensive and slightly angered than curious. She put her eye to the peep hole and got her first glimpse of the man who would ruin her family in one night.
She opened the door and the light from the living room showed her a man who was beautiful and dark at the same time. His skin was pale and his cheeks were gaunt, sunken in, as if he had not eaten in days. But his lips were a sensuous red and he had beautiful long black hair. His eyes were a penetrating green which reminded her of the husband she still loved deeply. Those eyes were almost hypnotizing. He was well dressed, as if he had just finished a business meeting. He was holding his black fedora in his right hand against his chest and he gave her a funny little bow almost like a china-man greeting a friend.
“Are you Mrs. Marie Matheson?” he asked. She could not place his accent. It was strange and he was obviously not from Texas, or anywhere near Texas for that matter.
“Y-yes, I am. Can I help you?”
“I deeply apologize for calling on you and your beautiful family at such a late hour,” he said, indicating the children staring at him from behind her. “But I am in town for one night. I am only passing through, you see, and I had hoped to rent a room. I have heard that you have one available.”
“Look,” she said, still apprehensive despite her immediate liking of this man. “I normally don't-”
“I understand and I assure you that I will pay more than twice the normal cost of your room. I also assure you that I will be gone before the sun shows its first light.”
“Normally, I would assume you are a man of your word, sir, but under these circumstances-”
“Of course,” he said, removing a battered wallet from his back pocket. “I hope I have not offended you with my assumptions that you would take in a stranger at such an hour, but I greatly appreciate your hospitality.” He handed her six twenty dollar bills. That was enough for her. But she still did not let him in yet. He stood just outside the threshold of her door, smiling at her with teeth that were perfectly white and perfectly set.
“You've already missed dinner, but I can still offer you breakfast in the morning if you would like, Mr...”
“My apologies,” he said, bowing once more. “My name is Sandulescu. Demetrius Sandulescu.” He took her left hand in his right and kissed it like a suitor asking for a dance. “I will be unable to join you for breakfast. I have dined already, and I need nothing more than a place to rest tonight. Thank you for your kind offer and I will sorely miss your morning company, but I will be gone before then.”
Marie watched him for a while longer as he stood outside. “May I,” he asked, beckoning toward the living room with his left hand, still holding her hand in his right.
“Yes, of course,” she said, taking her hand away and stepping aside to let him come in.
Demetrius Sandulescu stepped over the threshold of the Matheson doorway and closed the door behind him.

4

Sarah watched this conversation take place with rapt amazement. She saw a nice looking man, whose brown eyes reminded her of her kindergarten teacher, whom she had adored five years before. He had been wonderfully supportive of her when her father died and took every possible chance to accommodate her needs in the classroom. The man spoke in a strange manner which she had never heard before. She liked his lovely black hair and hoped that hers would be like that when she got older. Overall, she liked the man, but there was something about his teeth and his hands that slightly unnerved her. He had these odd, fingers that were all the same length (if the thumb is not counted) and the fingernails were extraordinarily long; about an inch off the tip of each finger. She had never seen anyone with fingers that were all the same length before. His teeth were stunningly white and straight but there was something strange about them that she couldn't quite wrap her head around. Surely, it was nothing, but she wondered.
She was still staring at the man, Demetrius, he had said, when her mother had turned around to face them all. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair was a little disheveled when she looked at them, her eyes far off as if she were in some kind of trance and Sarah was afraid for her. Then her eyes seemed to clear and she she seemed to come back to herself.
“Well, what are you all staring at?” she asked incredulously. “Sarah, it's time for bed. The rest of you, go to your own rooms and mind your own damn business. Don't stay up to late James, Samantha.” She nodded her head at each of them in turn. “The two of you have school in the morning.”

5

James was in his room on his bed, but he was not sleeping. His light was still on and the CD player had changed disks; Metallica's hard, driving riffs lost most of their momentous power with the volume at such a low level. James was not thinking about Metallica though, or even paying attention to them. He was thinking about Demetrius (if that was his real name) and not in the way anyone else in the house probably was.
James had read Bram Stoker's Dracula and Stephen King's Salem's Lot. He has seen the movies for both as well (which sucked harder than a vacuum cleaner compared to the epic novels) and he knew a vampire when he saw one. He had read enough vampire folklore to write his own novel about them, had even been thinking about it (it was probably something to work on when he got older and more skilled in his craft).
Sandulescu could not have made himself more obvious to James. He had seen his eyes, but only for a moment before he looked away from them (One could quite easily be hypnotized by the eyes of a vampire) and he had seen them flash red before turning to the deep blue that reminded him of his mother. Of course he had long beautiful hair. Ann Rice gotten that part exactly right. The fingernails were long and the fingers themselves were all the same size. Well, that one he couldn't explain with vampire folklore, but still; it was suspicious. The man had been well dressed as vampires always tend to be, and oh, those teeth. They were suspicious too. He could imagine Sandulescu's canines growing long, hooking into fangs. He could see them dripping with blood, his blood.
He got up and began to pace the room. Sandulescu's lips were even suspicious. They were the deep blood red that he had always read about. And the worst part was his skin. It was so pale and his cheeks were so gaunt. He must be hungry, James thought. He is on a stop between cities. He's going to turn everyone into vampires in some town down the line like that guy, Barlow, in Salem's Lot. This was just a stop on his way to the next place. He would stay here tonight and he would feed.
Oh Christ, man. Get a grip, he told himself. You do this shit all the time. But this time it was different. This time it had to be real. Everything fit; everything he had read about, everything he had seen. It all fit.
He had to talk to someone about it. He couldn't talk to Mom; she would think he was crazy, making things up again, or both. She would tell him to go to bed and quit bothering her with such nonsense. Surely, she was probably asleep already. Samantha would probably tell him to get the fuck out of her room as soon as he came in. Sarah was too young. That left only Corey and his room was right next to the guest room. He would have to be quite. If the vampire heard him, he would know he suspected and he would come for him right away. But what else could he do?
He opened his bedroom door and looked out into the hallway. All the lights in the house were out except for his own bedroom lamp. It shown a soft yellow glow into the hallway, but it faded before reaching the end of the hall where Demetrius was hiding (definitely not sleeping) in the last room. Samantha's room was beside his own and the stairway was directly in front of him. Corey's room was right next to the top of the stairs and his door was closed like Samantha's and the guest room. With bare feet, James tiptoed to his brother's room as quietly as possible.


6

Corey had never heard something so ridiculous in his life. James came up with some pretty crazy shit and he wrote some great stories (although he would never have admitted this to James' face, even if it meant his life) but this was beyond anything Corey thought his brother could have managed. Demetrius, a vampire? James had once confided in him that he thought the guy who was renting the guest room one night looked like the serial killer who's picture had been on the news. They had been looking for the guy for weeks and, Corey had to admit, he kind of did look like him. But the guy had slept soundly and moved on the next day without much of a word to them. Now this. What the fuck was the little moron smoking and why wasn't he sharing? Corey had been laying in bed when James came barging through his door without knocking (not that Corey didn't do that to James all the time) and he had barely had enough time to put his dick away before he came up to the bed an sat down. He had dried off his hand as nonchalantly as he could and pretended to listen, enraptured while James unfolded the most retarded idea he had ever had (which, Corey thought, was saying something for sure).
Apparently, the guy who was staying in the room right next to his own was a vampire. Har-de-har-har! Friends and neighbors, we have a winner! James Matheson has officially lost every last marble in his head! The kid was whispering as if he were afraid the guy was going to hear him and come kill them both. Corey was pretty sure the guy was asleep as he could hear him snoring in there. Last he checked, vampires didn't sleep at night and he was also pretty sure they didn't snore when they did sleep. As James finished whispering in his barely audible voice, Corey merely looked at him for a moment.
He laughed in James' face then, not kindly and James suddenly clapped his hand over his mouth hard, damn near slapping him to stop the sound of his laughter. He kept his voice low but his eyes were wide and serious, his voice inexorably stern and angry.
“Shut the fuck up, you god damn moron!” he whispered. This normally would have had the effect of angering Corey to the point of beating the crap out of the little snot nosed brat. But he saw the look in his brother's eyes and what it instilled in him instead was a fear which he had never felt. His heart fluttered in his chest and his stomach was suddenly full of butteries. But he remained calm, cool, collected as he spoke to his brother like a father telling a child that the monster in the closet is not really there.
“Look man, I think you better just go to bed and forget about this.” He was whispering too, but he no longer seemed capable of raising his voice above a whisper, now that the gravity of the situation was laying in his chest. “I don't care what you think about this guy. You better leave him the fuck alone and get some sleep. You've got school in the morning and it's already almost midnight.”
James started to protest but Corey held up a hand. “I don't want to hear it. Go to bed, let me sleep, and leave the guy alone.”
Corey thought he would protest again but then his eyes seemed to gain a resignation that said he was finished arguing. He got up and left the room.
As the door closed behind him, Corey began to really think about what James had said. Sure, he was a creepy guy with his weird same-length fingers and long fingernails. His pale skin was a little strange but, hell, some people just seemed completely unable to tan and were doomed to walk this earth as losers who would never get a chick in the sack. Still, though, James seemed pretty convinced of this guy's likelihood of being a vampire.
Corey no longer felt like getting off. He rolled over on his left side and suddenly became very aware of how dark his room was. The shadows seemed to creep in on him and enclose him. The moon was on the other side of the house and minimal light shone through his window. He also noticed for the first time, that the snores from the other room had stopped. He thought about those snores and it seemed to him, in retrospect, that they were completely and utterly fake, like a man pretending to be asleep, a killer feigning a gimp leg. Don't let the little dweeb scare you man. Quite being ridiculous. Vampires don't exist and that's all there is to it. Don't get scared.
But he was. The dweeb had, in fact, scared the shit out of him. He was shivering under the warm blankets and the darkness of the room was not helping anything. Suddenly he wished his father were still alive. If he were here, this man wouldn't be in his house at all. Mom never would have started renting out the room right next to his. He was scared alright and sleep was a while coming. When it did come to him, it was for the last time.


7

She had invited him in. James had been standing there at the top of the stairs willing her to turn him away, to tell him no. A vampire couldn't just come right into your house and kill you. You had to invite it inside. You had to say, “Yes, of course,” and step aside to let him in, which was exactly what his ignorant mother had done. James did not mean that his mother was stupid. No, people often confused the definitions of stupid and ignorant and it irritated James to no end. How was his mother suppose to know? She hadn't studied this since she was ten years old.
He had to stop resenting his mother for what she had done and think of something. Well, he couldn't just walk into the guy's room and stake him to death could he? Excuse me Mr. Sandulescu, could you just be still for a minute while I ram this stake through your heart? His father would have known what to do. Mark Matheson had been a good man and it had been from him that James had received his macabre interest in horror literature and movies. His father had been a horror buff himself. He and James would stay up late and watch horror films together; not just the new ones either. Although they watched Francis Ford Cappola's version of Dracula, which he had had the nerve to name Bram Stoker's Dracula, they had also watched the old black and white version with Bela Lugosi and they had watched Nosferatu together, trying to scare each other while the other was entranced in the movie.
Thinking of his father, James remembered that the man had been Catholic. His mother kept the crucifix in the kitchen, where she spent so much of her time. Sometimes she would take it out and hold it when she thought they wouldn't notice. She would hide it away as soon as one of them entered the room, pretending to be rattling around the kitchen while she wiped at her eyes. James had to have that crucifix. It was already twelve thirty and Demetrius could begin his work at any time. He would go downstairs and get it, bring it back up here, and hold it in bed, waiting for daylight. If Sandulescu never got up, great. But if he did, James would have protection and he would be ready to banish him from this house as soon as he made his move.
He got off the bed and turned off his CD player. Shut up for a minute Jimi, he thought, cutting Jimi Hendrix off in the middle of “Voodoo Chile”. He walked to the door and opened it slowly, trying not to make any noise. Of course, doors only seem to creak open while your trying to sneak out of your room quietly at night and his door was no exception, screaming in protest against being opened. He had turned off his lamp twenty minutes ago and there was no longer anything but the moon to illuminate the hallway. It was now very dark and James could barely see more than five feet in front of him. He wondered if he was alone in this passage. Was Demetrius maybe standing right outside of his bedroom watching him? No, James thought. If he were back there he would have already come for me. He's biding his time, waiting for everyone to go to sleep. It's easier that way.
He began to creep down the stairs slowly, still trying to make as little noise as possible. Of course, the stairs screeched loudly under his steps. If they creaked in the day time, James did not notice it. During the day, one is too busy thinking their thoughts and going about their day to notice those noises they hear so clearly at night. Each stair was like a blast of thunder in James' ears. He heard a creak upstairs and looked behind him, back up the stairs. Demetrius was standing there with his arms outstretched, his mouth open in a snarl, his teeth now long and pointed, dripping blood.
Of course, there was no such thing at the top of the stairs. There was, in fact, nothing up there at all. James looked on for a moment longer, sure that it would come back, then finished his long trek down the stairs.
In the living room, the darkness pressed against him like a living thing. It seemed to breath around him, obscuring shapes and forging them into sinister objects. He thought he could hear something moving in here, as though, maybe, he wasn't alone in the room. Something was stalking him from the darkness; he could feel it. The moon was on the back of the house and it shined very little light into the living room. He walked with his arms out in front of him like a blind man, feeling his way around a familiar apartment where the furniture has been rearranged. He felt the entrance to the dining room in his left hand. To his right, another door led to a hallway which held the rooms of, both his sister, Sarah, and his mother, as well as a bathroom. He opened the door to the dining room.
The dining room had no windows and was not just dark. In comparison, the living room was an airport runway. The dining room held a darkness so thick, not even shapes could be made out. This was where he would meet his end then. On his way to retrieve his protection, Demetrius would come upon him silently here in the dark, enfold him in his arms and take him. Those arms would be strong and James would stand no chance of resisting. He would draw his neck close to his mouth and suck his blood until his veins were as dry as the desert which surrounded them.
Then he found the door that led to the kitchen and stepped through. The kitchen had windows on the side of the house that saw the setting of the sun set each day and the moon was shining brightly into it. He had to make this quick. He could feel time passing almost as if it were a physical thing. The kitchen was spacious with a large pantry and many drawers and cabinets for storage. An electric stove stood on the far side from the door to the dining room and a sitting table sat directly in front of him. He moved to the left and went to the drawers surrounding the stove, dishwasher, and sink. The one in which his mother kept the crucifix was full of other stuff, mostly junk and it took him a while to find it. He could feel the time slipping away. He rooted around in the drawer, picking up boxes of paper clips, pens, pencils, envelopes, spare change...
He could feel Demetrius behind him. He was walking toward him through the darkness of the dining room. James rooted faster, scattering crap all around the drawer. Demetrius was closing the distance. He was surely in the moonlit kitchen by now. James' hair was standing up on the back of his neck now, his body breaking out into a cool sweat. Goosebumps were breaking out over his arms. James didn't dare turn around, not without his crucifix, only looked faster, in a frenzy now. Finally his fingers closed on the crucifix just as Demetrius was reaching for his shoulder. James wheeled around, holding the crucifix in front of him, his lips peeled back in a sneer of triumph.
He brandished his crucifix at the sitting table. No one was there.

8

Demetrius was standing in the middle of the Matheson's guest bedroom, watching the moon and waiting for the members of this family to fall asleep. He did not do this because he had to. He could have overtaken all five of them, easily in the entrance of the house. He chose to take them in their sleep, simply because it was easier. All occupants of the household had now fallen into a deep sleep except for one who was roaming about the place, looking for some protection from him. The boy knew, but that was alright. While the boy slept, Demetrius would take him with ease, sucking his life's blood from his dying body until his veins collapsed and they shriveled up inside of him. He was not worried about the cross. He could look upon crosses all he liked, as long as they were not held by someone who believed with conviction in their power. Any religious object had this effect, not just crucifixes.
He did not plan to kill them all. He wanted the mother and the eldest sister. They would make powerful and wonderful companions. He would turn them, sleep here in the morning, hunt with his new friends, and then move on. He had no plans to stay in Shelton. Small towns are too quick to discover the nature of a vampire and he would be quickly driven out by the inhabitants.
Demetrius had not eaten in two days, not having a chance to take anyone last night as he had been traveling by train. He was more hungry than he had been in many years and he was beginning to feel impatient with the boy.
He sent his mind out to discover the state of the boy's own mind. It seemed as though the boy planned to remain awake all night, waiting for sunset, and hoping that Demetrius would not come to him. The boy was very afraid and that was not surprising considering what he suspected of the Matheson's guest. Now he sent another power to the boy, pushing him gently toward sleep. At first, the boy resisted, getting up and pacing the room. Demetrius pushed harder, forcing the boy to go back to his bed. He stood patiently, telling the boy to go to sleep for twenty minutes and, finally, the boy relented, falling into sleep like a dehydrated man falling into a stream of water. Everyone in the house slept now.
Demetrius smiled. He enjoyed playing with his victims before he took them helplessly into his arms and sank his teeth into their necks or their wrists. He had amazing power over women who were irresistibly attracted to him sexually. This did not mean that Demetrius had sex with the women he killed. But he often made them think that he planned to do exactly that, kissing them gently and gaining their trust more thoroughly before killing them. Demetrius changed forms now, becoming a smoke and moving under the door of the guest bedroom, wanting to make as little noise as he possibly could.

9

Marie Matheson lay in bed for an hour, as she often did since the death of her husband, before sleep finally came to her. She fought the depression well, keeping herself busy with the kids, with the house, with the spare bedroom. But at night, when the house was quiet and she was left alone with nothing but her thoughts, it would sometimes creep in on her like an old friend. Hello Marie, I sure did miss you. How are the kids?
And that was a good question wasn't it? She did her best to continue raising them as a single mother but she couldn't help but wonder if their father would approve of the way she was running this house without him. Samantha was a good girl and she had a good heart, but she didn't think that Mark would like any of the boys she had brought home. And she sure did seem to go through them quickly too. James was such a smart boy and she was sure that he would get one of those stories of his published some day. She could imagine her husband beaming at him as he handed his son the first acceptance letter from one of the magazines to which he was so often sending his manuscripts. She often wondered what to do about Corey, who seemed to be about as lazy as his Uncle Tommy except that Corey had not yet discovered the bottle as Tommy had. She pestered him every day to get off his lazy ass and get a job. He wasn't even in college. If he had been, it would have been alright that he didn't have a job and still lived with his mother. The death of his father had obviously impacted him in a harsh way and she tried not to be too hard on him. He wasn't the same as he once was.
Was it time to move on, she wondered. The man has been dead now for five years and she was not getting any younger. At thirty nine years old, she still had a few months left before she passed the forty mark. She felt in her heart that it was time to move on and begin dating again, but she was so worried about the kids. How would they react? They seemed to have moved on and accepted the fact of their father's death, but once a widow starts bringing a new man around, kids start acting funny, as if some one were invading their territory. With these thoughts on her mind, Marie drifted into sleep. She didn't notice a black mist, like a thick smoke, a living shadow slipping beneath the frame of her bedroom door around one thirty a few hours later. As Demetrius materialized out of that smoke, still clad in his suit, Marie slept on, dreaming of Mark. He began to whisper her name. He said it five times and she began to stir, moaning in her sleep, her hands roaming over her own body.
“Wake up Marie. Wake up and see me now as I really am.”
Marie's eyes opened and she saw the beautiful man with the long black hair once again. His hat was off, apparently left upstairs in the guest bedroom and his eyes were the most amazing shade of red. She had never seen such eyes before and they fascinated and enchanted her, unable to take her own eyes away from them. The rest of the room seemed to drain away and all she saw now were those eyes and that face. “Demetrius,” she said. “I thought you would come.”
“I'm here, Marie,” he whispered and walked (no, glided) toward her from the middle of the room. He came to the side of her bed and knelt beside her on one knee like a man proposing marriage. “You have known such loneliness, Marie.”
“Yes,” she said, staring at the red eyes.
“You are in a constant state of vexation.”
“Yes.”
“You are tired, worn out, almost used up at such a young and desirable age.”
“Yes,” she repeated. She was whispering it with reverence in her voice.
“I want to take that away, Marie. I want you to live a better life; a wondrous and exquisite life.”
“Yes.”
“Join me, Marie. Never again will you wonder if your husband is looking down on you, proud of the job you have done. Never again will you worry about growing old. Never again shall you know fear or want. You shall live life eternal. You will never know pain or doubt. You will be one of us, the finest creatures on the planet. Your beauty shall be enhanced tenfold. ”
“Yes, yes,” she said, reaching for him. He got up and leaned over the bed, kissing her lips. She was a fine woman at the age of thirty nine. She had lost the weight after each of her children and had remained in good shape, aging well.
Demetrius kissed her lips and his were cold, yet so sweet and wonderful on her own. Her pulse spiked, her heart beating fast now and skipping beats. After five years without a single kiss from a man, her body was starved. He kissed her, moving on to her neck and she moaned. She could feel his long teeth beneath his lips and another soft moan escaped her lips. She wanted him and she wanted the teeth that she could feel behind those lips. She wanted him to bite her more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. He moved onto the bed, on top of her and he was not heavy. He was actually extraordinarily light for a man who stood past six feet tall and was well built. She wrapped her legs around him, her nightdress lifting up passed her knees and her hips. His lips were on her breast now and she wanted him inside of her. She broke into a light sweat and it gleamed over her body in the moonlight as Demetrius' hands moved over her hot skin.
“Please,” she said, moving her hips against him. She dared not reach for his belt; she would let this man go at his own pace.
“Your death will be the sweetest part of your life,” Demetrius said and opened his mouth wide. She saw the long pointed teeth and felt her desire for him double.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, please.”
When Demetrius bit her neck, she felt a short moment of pain, a sting like a needle going through flesh, then it was gone. What replaced it was a sweetness which had never been matched in her life. No simile could describe the way it felt to her. His lips were now very warm, rather than cold and there was a pleasant tingling sensation in the area around them. It wasn't a bad tingle like what you get if you sit in the wrong position too long and your leg falls asleep. It was magnificent. There was a pleasant fire in her neck now, a warmth pulsing through her veins. She heard something like music, not with her ears, but in her head; the most wonderful music she had ever heard. She began to drift as her body was drained of life. He did not take all of her blood; merely the least he could take and still leave her dying. He left her with the smallest grasp on life, barely breathing, heart beating feebly. Before the darkness of unconsciousness enveloped her, she heard him say, “Death is, for you my love, only the beginning. You will awaken tomorrow night with new life.” Then the darkness took her completely and she knew no more.
The blood that now ran through her veins was laced with something which was beginning its work immediately but would not finish for many hours to come. In a sense, it was a disease, one which would give life rather than death. A disease that would give the curse of eternal life. She had welcomed it with open arms and Demetrius had been delighted to oblige.

10

She was beginning to fear that maybe she was a slut. She was immediately attracted to Demetrius and not in a “oh, he's good looking” sort of way, but with a powerful desire that she could not explain, even to herself. He was tall and he had the most gorgeous light blue eyes that seemed to remind her of her first high school boyfriend, Thomas, whom she had fallen deeply in love with (as much as a fifteen year old girl can fall in love anyway). He had stood there just inside the doorway and he had looked up at her standing beside her mother and smiled at her. There had been something in that smile, with those perfect white teeth. It was a knowing smile. It seemed to tell her that he knew perfectly well exactly what thoughts were passing through her mind. His eyes had seemed to hypnotize her for the short moment that he looked at her and in that moment it seemed that she could drown happily in those eyes.
While she wanted him deeply, she was also afraid of him and the desire she felt for him. She saw a certain power behind those eyes that she could not quite place and she found those perfectly white and straight teeth to be very peculiar.
It wasn't just Demetrius either. She was cheating on the first really good guy she had dated since Thomas. She had known such kindness from Jimmy and he was such a wonderful gentleman. But Steve, with whom she was cheating, was so passionate. Her time with Jimmy was so bland compared to the rockets that seemed to fly with Steve and she was ashamed of herself. She wondered what Jimmy would say when she told him. He would be heart broken, she was sure. It would be tough and she would hate herself, but it had to be done.
She lay naked in bed, hoping for the first time since her mother began renting the spare room, that the man who slept inside of it would come to her in bed. This was, by no means like anything she had ever felt before and it was a weight on her chest.
She fell easily into sleep and he came to her in her dreams. He made love to her with such passion that everything she had been worrying about was wiped from her mind. She focused only on him and his wonderful skin (which, in her dream was actually not pale) and he thrust inside of her deeply.
When he entered her room while she slept, she was writhing in her bed, caught in the dream. He materialized out of his smoke form directly beside her bed and whispered to her as he had whispered to her mother only twenty minutes before. Samantha didn't take as long to awaken as Marie had. One whisper was enough and her eyes flew open wide. He was standing beside her bed now and he was not pale anymore. The color that now filled his skin gave him a beauty she could never have imagined. He stood before her in his black suit and his red lips were parted slightly to reveal long, sharp teeth. His eyes were a penetrating red that held her gaze as soon as her own fell upon them.
She had kicked the bedspread off of her in her sleep and her slender body was exposed to Demetrius, something that half the boys at Shelton High School would have died to see. She did not feel exposed to this man. She felt at ease with herself, not self conscious in the least, and all thoughts of right or wrong were wiped away from her mind so completely, it was as if they had never been there at all.
“Come to me Demetrius.”
“You are aware of what you ask, Samantha?”
“Yes,” she said, and she was. She knew what he was now and she welcomed the thought of immortality. She would be forever beautiful, never age, never die. She would live with this marvelous man for all of eternity and they would make love with a passion that could never be matched by any mortal man.
Demetrius did not climb into the bed. He floated up and over her, looking down at her from a distance of a few feet. His hair did not fall from behind his shoulders but remained on his back. “I will give you what you want Samantha. You shall join us, the greatest creatures that have ever walked the earth, and you shall never parish,” he whispered to her.
“Yes,” she said, as her mother had before her. He came down to her and she spread her legs open for him as he rested on top of her, kissing her. Lips like a sweet dream. Hands on her breasts, on her stomach, on her thighs. Warm hands on her body. Lips on her neck, kissing softly. A soft moan escaped her lips. His tongue caressed her skin lightly, warm, sweet. Fangs sank into her neck. Pain for a moment. Trying to cry out now. No sound came out at all; only a quick exhalation. Her hands on the back of his neck, holding him to her own. A lover caught in excruciating passion. Dying now. She could feel it happening, welcomed it. This was the beginning, not the end. She drifted, the disease which coursed her mother's veins now running through her own, reshaping and revitalizing her, one cell at a time.


11

James fought sleep for as long as he could, holding his crucifix tightly in his right hand on his chest. Normally he listened to music while he waited for sleep but tonight he wanted complete silence and he wasn't trying to sleep anyway. He waited, hoping that Demetrius would not come out of the guest room, hoping beyond hope that he was wrong. He would lay awake all night, wait for sunrise and be relieved when the sun shone through his window and he knew that Demetrius was gone. But he wasn't just fighting sleep. It seemed as though sleep were fighting him, as though something was making him fall into it, become trapped by it. He fought it, getting up and pacing the room. But as he looked at his bed, it seemed so warm and comforting and he lay back again. He still tried to fight it laying in his bed, but he was not strong enough and he fell into a deep sleep as Demetrius began to roam his house, taking his first victim.
He awoke to the screaming of his brother. He heard it very clearly in his mind and he came up from sleep like a diver who realizes he has gone too deep and kicks frantically for the surface. He came up and his brother's screams were like nails on a chalkboard. He clutched for his crucifix and for a moment he was filled with panic as he searched the sheets for it. He laid his right hand on it and he felt a power jolt through his arm like an electric shock. He sat up in bed, eyes wide, heart beating frantically, stomach full of butterflies, head swimming in a whirlwind of thought.
Demetrius was taking his brother. Who else had Sandulescu taken tonight? He did not hear his older sister stirring in the next room and knew with the sense only a brother could know, that she was already dead. Should he check to make sure? Samantha and James' rooms were separated only by a bathroom and he would have to go passed Corey's room to get there. If he passed Corey's room, he felt sure that the vampire would come to him while he shook his dead sister, attempting to wake her. No, she was dead. He knew it in his very soul. He had to go downstairs to protect his mother and younger sister. He hesitated no longer, bolting from the bed and running down the stairs, not trying to be quiet now and his brother's screams stopped when James reached the living room. He was dead.

12

Corey awoke with a start and Demetrius was standing in his doorway, the door closed. He hadn't opened it. He had just slipped underneath it in a mist or smoke form. Of course. His brother had been right and Demetrius was here now to kill him. The vampire's eyes were glowing red in the dark and his long hair swam about his face like a shadow. His skin was no longer pale and he knew that the vampire had already visited other members of his family. Corey's bladder let go, soaking his boxer shorts. He began to scream and got up on the bed, trying to put as much distance between himself and Demetrius as possible. But he had nowhere to go. Demetrius was between him and the door and he was on the second floor. He thought briefly about just jumping through it, glass crashing down around him as he fell to the ground below, meeting his death by a more natural means than this thing had to offer. He couldn't bring himself to do it. His screams were not words like “no” or “please” but short, fast utterances of negation, tearing at his throat.
The vampire did not waist any more time. Demetrius came to him on the bed with a speed that was wondrous to behold. He was like an animal, a cheetah that needed no time to gain momentum before it reached top speed. Demetrius moved so fast Corey was barely able to see it and he reached the bed in less than a second. The first thing Demetrius did was not bite him but slash at his stomach with his sharp fingernails, spilling blood onto the bed in sheets.
“Stop that moronic blathering,” he growled, “and take your end like a man!”
He did not, though. He jumped from the bed and ran for the door. But the vampire's speed was unearthly and he was in front of him, between himself and the door again, in a flash. Corey's knees buckled and he fell down on them, begging for his life.
“Please don't!” he screamed. “please, I won't tell anyone! Please!”
Demetrius had heard enough. He didn't want this vile excuse for a man's blood to even touch his lips. He did not want to bite him.
Demetrius Sandulescu, who had been alive when Dracula was slaughtered in his own home, grabbed the vile thing before him and lifted him from his knees. He screamed again and Demetrius stopped the screams as he plunged his nails into his throat, severing the arteries there and squirting blood all over himself as well as the walls and the floor. He held on while the vile thing kicked, doing an air dance like a man hanging himself, until he moved no more. Demetrius cast the body aside, into a corner of the room like a rag doll, opened the door (no more need to sneak around) and walked out of the room without wiping the blood from his face.

13

James ran through the living room and chose the door set into the right side of the room this time, rather than the left. This door opened on a hallway where a guest bathroom was the first door and his sister's room was the next door. His mother's room was the last door in the hall and it was the largest room in the house. James would go to his sister's room first. While he was worried about his mother, logically, it made more sense to tend to Sarah first. He opened the door knowing in his heart that she would be laying still on her bed, dead as Samantha and Corey upstairs.
But she wasn't. She was sitting up in bed with her eyes wide, staring at him with such fright his heart broke for her a little. No time. He ran to her and scooped her up. She began to cry in his arms, something she used to do when she was younger, right after their father had died and she would climb the stairs to his room and sleep with him after a nightmare.
“Shh,” he said. “It's going to be OK Samantha. Don't worry, I'm going to protect you.”
“I heard the most awful screaming James! What was that?”
“Don't think about that right now, Samantha. I've got you now. You're going to be alright.”
“It was terrible,” she said and buried her face in his chest, moistening his shirt with her tears.
“Don't worry Sarah. It's OK.” He continued to sooth her as he walked to his mother's room. She was a light sleeper and as he approached her door he knew. If she hadn't awoken at the sound of Corey's screams she had already been taken. She was dead.
He opened the door and looked inside. She wasn't moving. He walked to her bed on stiff legs anyway, hoping he was wrong. He tried to set his sister down, but she clung to him.
“Sarah, I've got to check on mom. I need to put you down. Don't worry, I'll protect you,” he said, rubbing her hair with his hand. She allowed him to set her down and he looked down at his mother. There were two windows in her room and they let in enough moonlight for him to see her with more clarity than he ever would have wanted to.
She was not breathing. Her cheeks were not pale in death and blood had not pooled at the bottom of her body as it normally does in a corpse. She was lovely in death, her skin full of color and her hair was thicker, the gray gone.
He shook her, trying to wake her. She wouldn't move. Her right arm slipped from the bed and knocked on the hardwood floor. The finality of that sound wrenched James' heart from his chest and he screamed without words. Now his mother, father, and two older siblings were dead. His mother would not remain so, however. He could see that death was not the end for her and that broke his heart even more. A hand fell on his shoulder and he wheeled around.
He stared Demetrius Sandulescu directly in the face. He was covered in blood. It dripped from his teeth and his chin. It coated his long black hair. His eyes were red now, he saw and as he looked into them, his pain began to slip away from him. He welcomed it. Let it come then. He would be one of them. He would walk the earth forever, praying the night.
“NO!” he screamed and thrust the cross out in front of him, touching the vampire's left cheek with it. The skin sizzled beneath the crucifix like bacon on a grill and Demetrius screamed, grabbing James by the shirt with his right hand. His claws tore at his shirt and scratched his flesh drawing blood from his chest. The vampire threw him across the room with astonishing strength and he landed against the far wall with a crash. The front of his shirt was in tatters and covered in his own blood. He held the cross out in front of him, a symbol of good, and he could feel the immense power in it flooding his right arm. Demetrius backed up against the wall opposite him, knocking over a lamp and sending it crashing onto the floor. The power of the crucifix was washing down his arm in a wave and suddenly he felt it engulf his entire body. He advanced on the vampire as his sister ran toward him, getting behind him like a shield.
“Stand back in the name of God, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit! I command you!”
“Boy,” he said, “You have such strength in you. Such intelligence. You make a formidable enemy. But I assure you, you would make an even more powerful companion. The two of us could be great together, James. You could be so much more than you are now.”
James saw his eyes and was transfixed by them. A powerful ally, yes. He could see himself as a vampire, a beautiful, powerful being. He would take new victims each night, dining on their blood like fine wine. He would never die. It all made perfect sense.
He began to lower the cross and the vampire grinned at him. That grin was too much for James and with all the will he could summon, he looked away from the red eyes of the vampire.
He raised his cross again and felt that power surge through his arm once more. The vampire screamed in terrible pain and threw his arms out in front of him like a shield to block the sight of the cross. He changed forms, his cloths tearing from his body and falling to the floor in ruins, his skin darkening to a shade of brown, his body growing taller and his arms attaching themselves to his back with a long webbing that made a winglike structure. He morphed before Jame's eyes into a huge bat. The Demetrius thing screeched at him in an unspeakable cry that seemed to tear at his ear drums. It tried to step forward but could come no closer to him holding his cross in front of him.
“In the name of Christ, I command you to leave this house!” James screamed and his voice echoed around the room with tremendous force and power, as if the voice of God had filled his throat. “I revoke the invitation of entry my mother has given. On her behalf, as her next living relative, I revoke the invitation! Leave this place and never come back here again!” The vampire screamed and stepped forward, coming toward James and the cross burned in his hand with a white light that filled the room. The vampire backed away from him again, holding up his arms to shield his face.
“You live today,” screamed at him in it's terrible, inhuman voice. “I will come back for you! I have lived for centuries and I will not be bested by a mere boy!”
The vampire spread out his arm-like wings beside him like Christ on the cross and vanished into thin air. James kept his cross held out in front of him as if he still needed to ward him off. His sister suddenly burst into tears behind him and he turned to tend to her, never dropping the cross.

14

“What are you doing?” Sarah asked, timidly as James turned over the large kitchen table. It crashed on the hardwood dining room floors with a boom. The table was solid mahogany and its legs would serve his purpose perfectly. He needed only two of them. He had seen his brother not long after they had woken up and he was not going to rise up tonight. He had been fortunate.
“I need these table legs,” he said now. “I want you to do something for me.” He took her shoulders in his hands and squatted down to be eye level with her. He looked into them and spoke with conviction. “I need you to go outside and sit on the porch. Don't come inside, no matter what you hear.” She was shaking her head violently from side to side in a gesture of denial.
“Listen to me,” he said and his voice was hard now, cold. “They can't get you in the day time. He's not coming back. He's long gone, Sarah, and he can't get you now. Trust me. I'm your brother and I'm doing this to protect you. Don't come inside. You may hear terrible things, screams. It may sound like I'm in danger in here. No matter what happens, don't come inside. I'll come out when I'm finished.”
“I love you, James,” she said and the power of those words almost brought fresh tears to his eyes. He could feel them stinging just behind the lids. He held it back. He had done enough of that today. It was time to be strong. The work ahead would be the worst thing he would do in his life, but it had to be done. He could not live knowing that two of his family were feeding on the innocent night after night.
“I love you too, Sarah. Now, please, do as I say.”
She turned and began to walk away slowly with her head down. She stopped and turned around to look at him again. “Promise me,” she said.
“Promise you what, Sarah?”
“Please be careful. I don't know what I'll do without you, James. I'll be all alone.”
“I promise,” he assured her. “Nothing is going to happen to me. I'll see you in no more than two hours. I'll be out there for sure before nightfall.”
She nodded, satisfied. She walked across the living room and opened the front door, where Demetrius had stood the night before, asking to be let inside.
A long handled ax, a hatchet, his father's hammer, a cross, and a bundle of his mother's garlic from the pantry were laid out in a row beside him on the floor. He picked up the ax and began to hack legs off the kitchen table. The hatchet would make fine stakes out of these legs.



15

Marie Matheson woke up in the early hours of the morning with her skin burning. She couldn't understand what the problem possibly could have been at first. Then she realized that the sunlight was showing through the window and falling on her legs. The skin felt like it was on fire there. Her stomach hurt worse than it had when she got food poisoning nineteen years ago and her head felt like it was going to explode. She knew that she had changed. She saw the world differently now. Her room stood out clearly, the lines the walls made finely drawn, the colors of the comforter standing out with a brilliance that was astonishing. She could hear everything. A bird chirping outside was like a foghorn in her ears. The sound of her two remaining children breathing in the living room where they must be sleeping was clear to her.
But her legs! They were beginning to emit small amounts of steam now. She felt so sick, she was not sure she could get up to close her curtains, which were black and thick and would block out the sun nicely. Samantha had the same curtains in her room as well. She reached out for the curtains from the bed as if she could touch them from ten feet away and willed them closed. And they did close. She closed the curtains on the window that faced West first, then the ones that faced South.
Immediately she began to feel better. Her skin was cooling off now and her headache was beginning to subside a little. Her stomach still hurt but she was sure that this would fade by the time she woke tonight and she was sure that Demetrius would be in her bedroom, waiting for her when she did.


16

As James finished making the second of his two stakes, he thought about the irony of the situation. He would be using his father's hammer to kill his mother for one thing. Also, this table had been built by his father. On one of the legs that he chopped off the table, there was an inscription carved into it. It said M. MATHESON. While he hacked on that leg with his hatchet, he took extra care to make sure that the name was not lost. He would be killing his mother and his sister with legs from a table built by his father and a hammer which may have even helped to built the table.
His father, having died when James was eleven had never had the chance to teach him to shave or drive, had not been able to give him advice about relationships or love. He had not been there when James wrote his first short story or when he sent his first magazine submission. Now his mother had ruthlessly been taken from him and he would never know her love or comfort again, never feel her warm embrace or smell her perfume again. His mother and his sister were now vampires and he must be the one to kill them.
But was he really killing them? No, Demetrius had done that last night. He had crept into their rooms and taken them one after the other. No, he wasn't killing them; he was freeing them. Freeing them from a life in which they would be a slave to the blood they craved, like a drug addict looking for the next fix. And when he was finished, he would go to the police and he would confess to it all. A life sentence in prison was better than trying to be a fugitive with his ten year old sister. He would tell them how he had killed all three of them and then lost his nerve before he could do his sister too.
He got up and picked up his crucifix (and it was his crucifix now) and put it in his front pocket. He didn't know if he would need it, but it was best to be safe. Next he picked up the hammer and put the handle into his pocket; the head poked out over the top of his jeans. Then he picked up the ax and the garlic in one hand, dangling the sack of garlic from it's pull string, and the two stakes in the other. They were thick and heavy and he had to hold them against his stomach. He walked from the dining room into the living room. He turned left into his mother's hallway and to her bedroom, ax and garlic swinging at his side.
Inside her room, he noticed that at some point, she had actually gotten up out of bed and closed her thick black curtains. Very little light shone through the curtains, but it was enough for him to work by. He dropped the ax and the bag of garlic in the doorway, walked to the edge of her bed, and knelt beside her, letting the stakes tumble from his arms onto the floor. He picked up her right hand in his own and held it tightly. It was cold to the touch. God, what do you say to your mother before you drive a fucking stake through her heart? He couldn't find words. His mother had been a wonderful woman. She had run a strict household and she had done so well for them after the death of James' father. He could remember her singing to him at his bed when he was a child. Nothing you could say could take me away from my guy. Nothing you could do, cuz I'm stuck like glue to my guy. She would never do that again. Every time he heard that song from now on, he would probably cry like a baby. Tears slipped over his eyelids now and James Matheson sobbed, crying for his mother as well as his sister.
She was so beautiful in death. Death seemed to have given her back ten years of her life and all the struggles of raising four kids by herself for five years. Maybe I should just leave her alone, he though. Maybe she will be alright as a vampire. The thought in itself horrified him and he picked up the first stake. M. MATHESON.
He placed the steak over her breast with his left hand and grabbed the handle of the hammer out of his other pocket, laying it on the bed for the time being. He removed the cross from the same pocket and transferred it to his shirt pocket so that he could reach it easily in case he needed it. He picked up the hammer and brought it up over his head.
He hesitated.
“I love you mother,” he said.
James Matheson brought the hammer down on the stake with all the force his exhausted muscles could bring, driving it deep, not quite past all the cartilage and bone. What blood remained in her body shot from the wound in jets, gushing and splattering his face, soaking the bedspread, his tattered shirt and his arms. Her eyes opened wide and she screamed in an inhumane wail of agony as James drove the stake in further, now breaking the bone and piercing the heart. “James, no!” she screamed as the blood gushed out of her, splattering the walls. “Please, your killing me James!” She reached for him with her long fingernails which had become sharp, trying to scratch him.
He pulled the crucifix from his shirt with his left hand, the stake protruding from her chest of its own accord. He held the crucifix in front of her face, feeling that power surge through his arm once more and she hissed at him like an angry cat, laying back against the blood stained bed again. He kept the crucifix in front of her face with his left hand and she was screaming in agony, begging him to stop while he drove the stake in further.
He did not listen. He drove the stake in through her back with one final blow from the hammer as his mother's hand reached for him. It remained in the air for few seconds, dripping with her own blood, then it fell limp on the bed.
James was still crying for his mother. Even as he did what had to be done, he was weeping for her and he hated himself for what he had done. In that moment he wished the vampire had spared him this misery by tearing him apart as he had done his brother. He was covered in his mother's blood and there were two clean lines where the tears ran down. James did not hesitate once he began however. He picked up the ax. He had to finish the job.
James lifted the ax in both hands and, screaming wildly, swung it over his head. It swung in a wide arch and severed his mother's head cleanly. Little blood escaped the wound in her neck as most of it had either been drank by Demetrius or spilled all over him and the room. His mother's head fell off the bed onto the floor and he looked down into her staring eyes. He screamed then, lifting his face to the sky and wailing like a man dying, screaming at God or whoever could hear him. He had no more tears to cry for her and just screamed with the image of her dead glassy eyes, which stared at nothing imprinted on his mind. That image would remain with him forever. He sank to his knees before her head and stayed that way for some time, crying tearlessly.
Finally, he opened the sack full of garlic and got retrieved two cloves of it. He picked up his mother's head and she didn't look so good in death any more. She looked old and used up. Her skin was so cold in his hands. He stuffed the two cloves of garlic into her mouth, shoving them in as far as he could and placed her head back on the bed between her legs, as is custom in the killing of a vampire. He left the M. MATHESON stake in her chest. He looked up again, wondering if his father was looking down on him now, proud of his son for not flinching in the face of evil and fear. For setting his wife free to join him.
James put the handle of his hammer back in his pocket, picked up his remaining stake, and picked up his ax. He had to do it one more time before he could begin his new life as a prisoner and his sister could begin her new life as an orphan. He dreaded it as he had never dreaded anything before it.

17

James set his sister free in much the same way he had done so with his mother, crying tearlessly and hating himself. When he finally finished, he went into the kitchen and called the police. His voice was very dead, flat, and unreal to him in his own ears. He had told them his family was dead and that he had killed them himself. He said that he wanted to turn himself in and that he would be outside the house. They tried to keep him on the phone while the police were on their way but James had already hung up.
He went to the garage and found the gas can where he expected it to be, hanging on its hook among the other tools. It had plenty of gas in it and he started in the kitchen, splashing it over the sitting table, on the counters, on the floor and the walls. He made his way through the dining room, dowsing the ruined dinner table, which had room for six chairs but had only held six for the last five years. He moved into the hallway of his mother and sister's rooms now, splashing gasoline on the walls and floor. He did not actually go into those rooms. There was no need. He went back to the stairs and climbed them backward, pouring gas out in front of him as he went. He poured gas in his own room then went down the hall with the can, dowsing the carpet. Now the gas can was empty and he threw it down the stairs, crashing along the walls and coming to rest in front of the door.
He went into his room one final time and looked around at his books, his posters of bands and horror legends, his CDs, his manuscripts. It would all burn now. He went to his backpack and opened the front pocket, removing a pack of Marlboro cigarettes (look at me dad) and a Zippo lighter. He never smoked in the house as his mother would notice the smell right away. He could not imagine what she would do if she had found out.
He went downstairs languidly, as if in a dream and put a cigarette in his mouth. He opened the door and stepped out onto the front porch where his sister awaited him. A look of amazed disbelief was mixed with relief and distrust on her ten year old face.
“I'm still me,” he said, and she ran to him, hugging him tightly. “Come on,” he said, putting his left arm around her. He could hear the sirens, now coming through the desert from deep within Shelton. He flipped the top of the Zippo open and struck a flame. He lit his cigarette, inhaled deeply, then, turning his head back and walking forward onto the steps at the same time, flung the lighter into the house where it caught the gasoline on the floor with a whomfph, the same as James' life had in a single night.

May 24, 2010

[woodpryan]

I don't know how many of you guys read Stephen King's excellent memoir, "On Writing", but in that book he gives some really great advice about writing. He also gives us, the readers, a writing assignment. If you are not familiar with the assignment, I will tell you what it was now.
Write a story in which a woman drops off her son at a birthday party and goes home hoping for a few peaceful hours for once. She gets home and turns on the news to see that four prisoners have escaped and only three of them have been recaptured. She knows immediately that the one who is still at large is her ex-husband, who beat the shit out of her and got sent to prison. Then she hears his footsteps coming down the stairs. Now I'll quote Stephen King (paraphrasing)


It's a good story, but it's one that we have heard many times before. One we have read in the newspapers over and over. One that has been retold in fiction time after time. Now, this is my challenge. When you write this story, switch the genders.


* edited on may 27 at 6:12 PM. just changed a date and removed a line.

This is what I have done. If any of you guys have done this assignment and posted it on TDT.com, please give me the link. I'd like to read them. In the mean time, I would greatly appreciate it if you all could take a look at this and let me know what you think. I wrote this over the course of three hours tonight and this is my first draft, merely edited for spelling and punctuation errors. Thanks for the feedback guys and keep on writing. Here is my story.














The Dinner Guest
By Ryan Wood













Matthew Bachman was going to get some peace and quiet on an entire night by himself for once. He dropped his son, Jamie off at a friend's house for a sleepover birthday party and headed home with Metallica playing at ear shattering volume on his car's CD player. He was happy to be relieved of the boy for a while. While he loved him to death, kids can be nerve racking sometimes and it's nice to have a break once in a while. The two of them had lived alone for three years now, Shirley having been in the Dison Home for the Mentally Ill since 2007.
When they married, she had been a wonderful woman, happy, fun-loving, talkative (a little too much sometimes), and devoted wife. She had legs like a dream, exquisitely shaped breasts, a flat stomach, long brunette hair, green eyes, and a smile that lit up her entire beautiful face. It started when she got pregnant with Jamie and it progressed very slowly so that it was hard to notice it getting worse some times. She was upset at getting fat while she was pregnant and did not eat nearly enough. She was afraid of ruining her wonderful figure and Dr. Shayne was adamantly telling her with each visit that she needed to stop this. But she wouldn't listen and they were very lucky that she didn't end up losing the baby. After Jamie's birth, she became obsessive about getting back in shape. She hated the stretch marks caused by her pregnancy and she quickly lost the weight she gained. Matt quickly became worried about her and he took her back to Dr. Shayne who recommended a nutrition therapist. The therapy worked for the most part, but the weight loss was not her only problem. She started talking to herself, but not in the same way that it seems most people do. She talked to herself as if she were hearing voices. She would not admit to the voices at first, but eventually told him that she heard them every now and then. Still, he was reluctant to take her to a doctor for this symptom. He did not want to have to admit that his wife was going crazy. They lived in a small town in Alabama, and people talked.
One day, he had come home and she had been watching TV while Jamie played with the pots and pans he had retrieved from the lower cabinets in the kitchen. The noise had been appalling as Jamie slammed the pots together over and over. Not only was she not paying attention to their son, but she was watching the TV while it was turned off, drool running down her chin in streams. He had taken her then and damn what the town had to say about it. They had kept her at the hospital for a week running tests and the results of those tests had been devastating. The diagnosis had been paranoid schizophrenia and antisocial disorder. They prescribed her medication and released her to come home.
After she came home, he had to force her to take the medication at first, but eventually she relented and took it herself. Over the next year, he noticed great improvement in her and she had become engrossed in gardening; her new obsession (at least it was a healthy one). She planted rose bushes in the front of the house and various small flowers in a garden surrounding the house. She also planted an oleander tree in the middle of the front yard. It bloomed beautiful red flowers and they bloomed often. She was very proud of this garden and it seemed to improve her mentality to have something to do during the day other than watch Jamie while Matt was at work. He was a software developer for Gemsoft Productions and worked a regular nine to five shift throughout the week, occasionally having Fridays off and occasionally needing to work on Saturdays when a deadline was coming up.
Shirley continued to improve over the next two years and by the time Jamie was four, he had all but forgotten the terrible symptoms that had plagued her. Then, one day, he had come home from work to her in a rage, believing that he was cheating on her. He had a deadline coming up soon and he had been working late all week, including the previous Saturday. They had fought then and he hadn't thought it an unusual fight in the least. Couples often went through this. The fight lasted no more than thirty minutes and consisted of nothing but yelling and screaming. When it was over, she had apologized profusely, making him his favorite meal: rigatoni. It was an easy meal to make, but time consuming and she made it with that special ingredient of which only wives and mothers are truly capable.
That night he had awakened to her touching him, but not in a loving, “I want a middle of the night fuck” way, but harshly, pulling on him like she wanted to rip it off. He came awake quickly and suddenly and saw that his dick wasn't the only thing she was holding. She had him in her left hand and a butcher knife in her right.
He did not wait to see what would happen, but threw her off the bed. She had fallen to the floor and begun screaming, slashing her knife wildly, trying to cut him. He had opened the drawer in his nightstand beside him and removed his .9mm, removing the safety and pointing it directly at her face.
She had dropped the knife then and ceased her struggling. He had called the police on her then, still pointing the gun at her and had had her committed to Denison, Alabama's state run insane asylum. There she had remained, her condition never improving for the last three years.
Now, as he drove home, he was not even thinking about her for once. He thought of her often, having had a bout of depression shortly after committing his wife which lasted almost a year. But now, the only thing on his mind was having a beer and watching some TV for a while. It was going to be a great night. He could piss with the door open, drink all he wanted, watch movies at whatever volume he pleased, and sit around in his underwear all evening.
Matt pulled into the driveway of his two story, four bedroom house, got out of the Mustang whistling, and walked passed his wife's oleander without a glance. He put his key in the lock and turned. Shit, I forgot to lock the door, he thought and walked inside, thinking nothing else of it. He walked to the refrigerator and retrieved a beer, popped it open with a practiced flick of his wrist, and sat down in the living room in front of the TV. He turned it to CNN where there was breaking news.
“... three of them have been found and returned, but there is one still at large,” the reporter was saying. Matt took a swallow of his beer and suddenly leaned forward, noticing now what the letters at the bottom of the screen said. FOUR ESCAPED FROM INSANE ASYLUM. ONE STILL AT LARGE.
“They escaped last night at about four o' clock in the morning...,” the reporter continued, but Matt was no longer listening. He stood up, dropping his beer and turned off the TV. He heard something now. It was the sound of someone coming down the stairs. Matt's heart was beating fast now, his pulse racing, his breath caught in his throat. His eyes were as wide as a dear caught in the headlights and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up on end. He saw one foot clad in black high heels descend a stair, then another one. Her legs were coming into view now and, although they were still the same beautiful legs they once were, they no longer had the effect of arousing him. Now they instilled fear into his heart like an ice pick that stuck there. He was paralyzed with it. She descended the staircase wearing a black skirt and a white blouse, one button undone at the top to reveal the tops of her perfect breasts.
“Hi, honey,” she said jovially, as if she weren't holding his .9 mm in her right hand; as if she hadn't been locked in an asylum for three years. “Oh, honey, you got beer on the carpet. Look what you've done.”
Matt looked down stupidly at the beer spilled on the floor and picked up the bottle, putting it on the coffee table. She walked toward him from the stairs and he began to back away from her, trying to keep as much distance between them as possible.
“Stop that,” she said. “Stop that right now, Matthew.” She pointed the .9 mm at him and he stopped immediately, putting his hands up in the air, something he had seen in so many movies that it was a natural reaction. “Put your hands down Matthew,” she said, sounding exasperated with him now. He did this in such a quick gesture, he could feel the blood rush to his fingertips.
“Now come here,” she said, gesturing with the hand that wasn't holding the gun. He came to her then and she leaned forward, obviously wanting a kiss. He hesitated, afraid of her still. “Kiss me Matt. I haven't kissed you in too long.” He still didn't lean forward to kiss her. She cocked the .9mm's hammer back: click. “Now,” she said, calmly. Her eyes were wild but her voice had a deathly calm.
He leaned forward now and kissed her lips. She pulled him closer with her left hand, keeping the gun between them and kissed him deeply, massaging his tongue with hers.
“That's much better sweetheart. Now, how was your day?”
He didn't know what to say to that. His day had been great until he got home and found his estranged wife, with whom he was in the process of divorcing holding a gun and pretending there was nothing wrong.
“I said how was your day honey?” She said it sweetly as if she really wanted to know.
“Uh... I guess... it was fine Shirley. Why don't you put down the gun and we can talk about it.”
“No, I don't think I will. Why don't you pick up that phone though. I know you want to. You keep looking at it.” And he was. His eyes were shifting from her own green eyes to the cordless phone in its cradle. “Pick it up,” she said. He did now, bending down and snatching it out of it's cradle. He realized what he would find just before he pressed the TALK button. Of course, the line was dead, only silence filling his ear like thunder.
“What do you want, Shirley?” he asked her with a noticeable quiver in his voice.
“Only to make you dinner,“ She told him, smiling. The smile even reached her eyes, lighting up her entire face just as it used to. “The gun's just a precaution really. I wouldn't want you running away from me while I'm making it.”
A new fear jumped into his chest then and his heart hammered, knowing what she would do.
“Oh, your afraid I'm going to poison you aren't you?” He only looked at her. Of course she was going to poison him. What else would she have come here for? “If you think I'm going to let you out of my sight, your as stupid as you look right now, sweetheart. You are going to watch me make it. I can't poison you if your standing right in front of me can I?”
And that made sense. But he was still wary. She would find a way to do it. He was sure of it. Maybe he could find a way to take the gun from her though, turn the tables on her while she was making dinner and get to a phone to call the police. Sure, she was insane. Of course she wouldn't pay attention to him the whole time.
“I'm making your favorite,” she said now, taking his hand in her left and leading him to the kitchen. There, in the sink, he saw a package of Italian sausage had been defrosting as he took his son to the birthday party. He hadn't even noticed it. “Sit down,” Shirley said, using his gun to point at a chair at the bar. This bar faced the kitchen and away from the dining room, where there was a small table. He sat at one of the bar chairs looking at her as she prepared dinner talking as though it were any other day. Talking, in fact, as though she had never been in the Denison Home for the Mentally Ill. She told him how her son was doing in school, making all A's, she said (which actually was not true). She talked about her friends, Mary and Tabitha, telling him of a story Tabitha had apparently told her yesterday. She spoke of town gossip and told him about a woman who stopped by the house the other day to comment on how wonderful her garden was. The whole time, she kept the 9mm tucked into the top of her skirt. He tried to get up once, under the pretense of helping her with dinner, but she pulled the gun out with a speed that was amazing, like a gunslinger drawing to kill the bad guy in an old western. He sat down without a word. She put the gun back in her skirt and poured Prego sauce over the rigatoni noodles and sliced Italian sausage. Then she added the top layer of shredded mozzarella; a whole pound of the stuff.
While the rigatoni was in the oven, she washed the dishes, watching him out of the corner of her eye and telling him about the cutest pair of shoes she had seen at the store yesterday. Could she please get them when she went out tomorrow? And that made him think. What would tomorrow bring? What did she plan to do after tonight? Would she want to sleep with him? Would she want to make love to him? She obviously wanted to pretend everything was normal. How would she keep this up all night and what did she plan to do tomorrow? He was supposed to pick up his son at 12:00 in the afternoon. It won't come to that, he thought. I will find some way to overpower her tonight. This thought was only slightly comforting as he had not thought of a plan yet to overpower her or even get near her.
The timer on the oven was going off now and she took the rigatoni out to cool. He had watched her closely the entire time she cooked and he did not see her put anything at all in the food. Now she pulled a bottle of wine from the pantry and looked at it. “Pinot noir,” she said. “That sounds nice, don't you think honey?”
“I-I, ye-yes,” he stammered. “I suppose so.”
“Honey, are you thinking stupid thoughts again?” She sighed in exasperation. “This bottle is unopened and I got it from the pantry. Don't be foolish, sweetheart. I don't want to kill you. If I did, I would have done it by now.” This seemed to make some sense to him and he wondered again what her purpose for coming here really was. Did she just want to feel like she was a part of his life again for a little while? Surely, she expected to be caught. She couldn't stay here. Maybe she just wanted one night to be with him the way things used to be.
Shirley removed two glasses from a cabinet, turned toward him, and set them on the counter. She removed the corkscrew from the silverware drawer and popped it off. She poured them both a glass of the red wine and handed him one. “Cheers,” she said cheerfully, and tapped his glass, sending wine spilling over his fingers and onto the counter. He hadn't moved his glass yet. She drank down a large gulp of it and looked at him. Matt didn't drink.
Shirley sighed and leaned forward, the gun touching the counter and he thought about leaning forward and grabbing it out of her skirt. But it was too risky. He had seen that insane speed with which she had drawn the weapon earlier. She picked up his glass and drank deeply from it, then handed it back to him. “Drink the fucking thing Matthew.”
He did, taking two huge swallows of the wine and it tasted marvelous going down his throat.
“How is work, honey,” Shirley asked, taking a sip of her wine and looking at him pleasantly.
So they talked about work for a while, waiting for the rigatoni to cool. He told her about the projects he had been working on and about the idiot, Ryan, that worked in the cubicle next to him, the guy with the constant stupid questions. Matt sometimes wondered if the guy had taken a single programming class in college and if he had, what kind of grades he had scraped by with.
The rigatoni was ready and she told him to sit down at the table, which he did, carrying the bottle of Blackstone with him and setting it near the middle of the table. Now he was half way through his second glass and the world swam very slightly in his vision.
Shirley set the dish in the middle of the table and went back for two plates, forks, and napkins. She set hers at the end of the table opposite Matt and set his own in the middle of the table, next to the rigatoni, keeping her distance from him so he couldn't grab the gun from her skirt. She made her plate and let him make his own. He looked at her distrusting, but she simply looked back at him with that same loving smile on her face.
“The plants outside look great,” she said now, picking up her fork and digging into her rigatoni. “Especially the oleander tree. You've kept them up so well.” This was the first thing she had said that wasn't a fantasy. He had kept up the garden and her oleander well while she was in “the home”. He still loved her and he had been hoping all the way up to a few months ago that she would recover from her illness. He stared at her, open mouthed and she sat there as if she had not said anything out of the ordinary (ordinary for her anyway).
“You're welcome,” he said now, picking up his fork and stabbing some noodles and a chunk of Italian sausage. It was halfway to his mouth when his fork stopped moving and he just looked at his food, uncertainty welling up inside his chest.
“Oh, for Christ's sake,” she said, “I'm eating from the same dish and I let you pick your own didn't I? What is the matter with you Matthew?” She leaned over the table, now having placed the gun on the table top next to her right hand and grabbed his fork. She ate the bite that was on his fork and dropped it on his plate. “Now quit being a baby and eat!”
“I'm sorry,” Matt said suddenly realizing how stupid he was being. It was obvious to him now that she did not mean to kill him and he stabbed another bite, shoveled it into his mouth, and chased it with a gulp of wine. They made small talk throughout dinner and they each had a second helping.
After dinner they sat there talking for a few minutes and sipping their wine. She began playing with the top button of the white blouse and suddenly he could feel her foot crawling up his leg. He had had four glasses of wine now and she had had three. Being a light drinker who usually had three or four beers a week, he was now a little drunk. His first reaction to her playful flirtation was to be disgusted and his stomach flipped over at the thought. Then she undid another button on her blouse, exposing the black bra beneath and his penis began to harden, making him very aware that he been faithful to this woman for the three years that she was away. He got up and held his hand out to her. She took it in her right, picking up the gun nonchalantly with her left. They went upstairs to the bedroom and made love, passionately. There was something a little kinky about her holding the gun the whole time, tightly in her left hand and it somewhat turned him on even more in his drunkenness. Afterward, they lay together in afterglow and she asked him if she still loved her.
“Yes,” he said. “My love for you will never fade, Shirley.” The gun was on his stomach now, held loosely in her right hand. He made no move to take it. He no longer cared. His head was swimming maddeningly, the room spinning like a top. His stomach was beginning to cramp painfully.
“You know that oleander plant out there?” she asked.
“Yeah, what about it?” His stomach was now on fire and he was trying not to interrupt her placid mood by getting up and pacing the room by sheer willpower.
“Did you know that every part of that plant is extremely poisonous?” she asked him in an offhand way.
“No,” he said.
“Oh, yes” she said as if he were responding to her question and not simply voicing his utter disbelief at his realization. “It doesn't take much oleander to kill a person. 100 mg will kill a large horse. I crushed some of it into the Prego sauce before you got home.”
Now he was getting up. The room was not just spinning now but whirling and tilting as if gravity were shifting around him. He was clutching his stomach.
“You fucking bitch, you poisoned me.”
“No honey. Don't be silly. We drank from the same bottle of wine. We ate from the same dish. Of course I didn't poison you. I poisoned us both. It won't be long now.”
He looked at her and noticed that she was also clutching her stomach, her eyes shut tight in pain. She was breathing in harsh gasps, her respiration fast and sharp as his was also now. Matt fell to the floor, no longer capable of standing and attempted to crawl to the bed. His head was in a mass of pain. It felt like it was about to crack wide open and spill his brains onto the floor.
Matt began to convulse on the floor, foam spit escaping his lips and falling down the side of his face. The spit was mixed with blood. His bowls let go and that was laced with blood too. His muscles were spasming as if he were in the grip of an epileptic seizure. His legs kicked at the ground, his arms flew out in front of him, smacking himself and hitting the floor. His eyes flew from side to side, involuntarily and he retched, spilling hot rigatoni into his own face, on the floor, and down into his respiratory tract. Darkness overtook him now as he lost consciousness and it was all he knew.

[woodpryan]

Re: The Shadowman

Jean, shouldn't this be moved to "Turtleback Lane?"

[Jean]

Re: The Shadowman

Why, of course. Thank you woodpryan!

[woodpryan]

Re: The Dinner Guest

i'm actually a little surprised there are no comments here. i figured others would have done this assignment. I really want to read some of those.

[Brice]

Re: The Dinner Guest

Well, it hasn't even been up a day. I'm sure a lot of people just haven't gotten around to reading it yet. I read every post on the site, but honestly I don't really comment because I place no value on literary criticism and the best you're likely to get from me is me saying I liked it or didn't. And it's rare that there's a why for what I like or don't. That really doesn't tell you much, does it? I don't write much myself, but I still might take a stab at his little assignment sometime if I can find the time.

[woodpryan]

Re: The Dinner Guest

oh, I was mostly hoping I could get some links to others who have done the assignment. I'm very interested to read them and I haven't been able to find any in the back pages of the "Turtleback Lane" thread. I'm assuming I'm probably missing them as, surely others have done this thing. It was pretty fun. I made it a bit more humorous than I meant to when I started it and I doubt that he meant for us to go in that direction. But, I had a great time with this story.

[Brice]

Re: The Dinner Guest

He meant for you to go in whatever direction you chose to take it. :)

I can ay with near certainty no one else has posted a version of this assignment here ever. Maybe you're doing so will encourage others to give it a stab.

Someone should fix the typo in the thread title.

[Jean]

Re: The Dinner Guest



Someone should fix the typo in the thread title.
someone did

woodpryan: no, nobody has done the assignment yet, and I expect people to be encouraged by your example. I personally am going to post my version soon, already know what it will be.

[woodpryan]

Re: The Dinner Guest




Someone should fix the typo in the thread title.
someone did

woodpryan: no, nobody has done the assignment yet, and I expect people to be encouraged by your example. I personally am going to post my version soon, already know what it will be.

That's excellent Jean. I look forward to reading it. I'm already intrigued.

[cozener]

Re: The Dinner Guest

I might just do this assignment. But, I warn you, there's a really good chance that it'll degenerate into a trashy s&m story real quick. :excited:

[Brice]

Re: The Dinner Guest

We pretty much would expect nothing else from you, Coz. :lol:

[woodpryan]

Re: The Shadowman

got a rejection slip for this today from Fantasy and Science Fiction Magazine today:


Dr. Mr. Wood:
Thank you for submitting "The Shadowman," but I'm going to pass on it. This story didn't quite work for me, I'm afraid. Good luck to you with this one, and thanks again for sending it our way.

Sincerely,
Stephan Mazur
Editorial Assistant


That was pretty quick. I only sent it two weeks ago. Maybe after I'm finished with "Demetrius" and I send that, I'll get an acceptance letter. :) Just have to keep on trying.

[cozener]

Re: The Dinner Guest

The situation just lends itself so well to it. :)

"You've forgotten your place since I've been away, Brad. I'm here to put you back in it..."

*shivers*

[woodpryan]

Re: The Dinner Guest


The situation just lends itself so well to it. :)

"You've forgotten your place since I've been away, Brad. I'm here to put you back in it..."

*shivers*

lol. oh, christ. terrible images. thanks for that.

[Brice]

Re: The Dinner Guest

Wait till the images you'll get when/if he actually writes it. :rofl:

[candy]

Re: The Dinner Guest

woodpryan i loved your short story, it flowed really well. And i really wanted to know what happened at the end:thumbsup:

in fact, reading your short story has now got my brain ticking over and i am very well do a version of my own

[woodpryan]

Re: The Dinner Guest


woodpryan i loved your short story, it flowed really well. And i really wanted to know what happened at the end:thumbsup:

in fact, reading your short story has now got my brain ticking over and i am very well do a version of my own

well, the "darkness overtook him now and it was all he knew." was Matt dying. His wife will die too. Should I explain this further and the fate of their son as well? I seem to have this problem with open endings. My English instructor is always getting onto me for that. It feels closed and done for to me, but the reader seems to be left wanting. Is this the case here?
Thanks so much for the feedback.

[mystima]

Re: The Dinner Guest

I read the results of that writing assignment on The Stephen King site. there were three place winners and an honorable mention. the last one i thought was the best of the four.

[woodpryan]

Re: The Dinner Guest


I read the results of that writing assignment on The Stephen King site. there were three place winners and an honorable mention. the last one i thought was the best of the four.
Interesting. do you have a link to that? I'd like to see them.

[candy]

Re: The Dinner Guest



woodpryan i loved your short story, it flowed really well. And i really wanted to know what happened at the end:thumbsup:

in fact, reading your short story has now got my brain ticking over and i am very well do a version of my own

well, the "darkness overtook him now and it was all he knew." was Matt dying. His wife will die too. Should I explain this further and the fate of their son as well? I seem to have this problem with open endings. My English instructor is always getting onto me for that. It feels closed and done for to me, but the reader seems to be left wanting. Is this the case here?
Thanks so much for the feedback.

sorry, i should have explained better - i do that a lot, run into the forum and then run out again, only to leave confusion in my wake:wtf:

i meant i had to keep reading to see what happened at the end. hope that makes more sense?:huglove:

[mystima]

Re: The Dinner Guest



I read the results of that writing assignment on The Stephen King site. there were three place winners and an honorable mention. the last one i thought was the best of the four.
Interesting. do you have a link to that? I'd like to see them.

looks like he took them off the site now...it was a few years ago when i saw them.

[woodpryan]

Re: The Dinner Guest




woodpryan i loved your short story, it flowed really well. And i really wanted to know what happened at the end:thumbsup:

in fact, reading your short story has now got my brain ticking over and i am very well do a version of my own

well, the "darkness overtook him now and it was all he knew." was Matt dying. His wife will die too. Should I explain this further and the fate of their son as well? I seem to have this problem with open endings. My English instructor is always getting onto me for that. It feels closed and done for to me, but the reader seems to be left wanting. Is this the case here?
Thanks so much for the feedback.

sorry, i should have explained better - i do that a lot, run into the forum and then run out again, only to leave confusion in my wake:wtf:

i meant i had to keep reading to see what happened at the end. hope that makes more sense?:huglove:

ah. i see. excellent. i love those open endings, but i've been trying to get rid of them. i'm glad to hear i haven't done it again. lol. thanks for the encouragement. greatly appreciated. if you enjoyed this, you may enjoy my short story "Demetrius", although it's quite a bit longer and takes about an hour to read. it's posted here as well. thanks again.

[candy]

Re: The Dinner Guest

i shall look for it, can you remember which thread it is posted in?

[Brice]

Re: The Dinner Guest

The thread named Demetrius, maybe? :orely:


:P

woodpryan: The story is finished when it feels finished. The reader wanting more is something you want, imo.

[candy]

Re: The Dinner Guest


The thread named Demetrius, maybe? :orely:


:P

woodpryan: The story is finished when it feels finished. The reader wanting more is something you want, imo.

piffle, hate looking stupid on a sunday morning. Every other day is fine, just hate looking stupid on sundays:nana:

[Brice]

Re: The Dinner Guest

Oh, okay I'll wait till tomorrow to make that comment. :lol:

[woodpryan]

Re: The Dinner Guest


Oh, okay I'll wait till tomorrow to make that comment. :lol:

you guys are a trip. i love this board.

[Brice]

Re: The Dinner Guest

:D

[woodpryan]

Drive
By Ryan Wood
A man drives home drunk for the last time.

*edited June 11 for spelling, consistency, and general wording*
**edited on June 13 for spelling, punctuation, rewording, ENDING CHANGE, and vehicle changed for accuracy**




To drive to the nearest bar from Shelton Texas, one would have to take Highway 20, also known as Alameda Avenue, and drive through Tornillo up to Fabens. Once on Highway 20, one could take that road all the way through to Lara's Bar and Grill, a small honky tonk where the glasses are dusty, the lady at the bar has few teeth, and the juke plays mostly country twang. It was a twenty minute drive from Shelton and it was one that Clint Dawson made often. This is where he was on a Thursday night, drinking from one of those dirty glasses and trying to keep conversation with the other patrons to a minimum.
He did this three or four times a week and if he wasn't drinking here, he was either working at one of his two jobs or drinking at home. He was not worried about the strain he placed on his liver at just twenty three years old. In fact, the only things he thought much about at all were the mounting bills and his dead wife.
He had met her in college when he attended the University of Texas in El Paso (UTEP). She was an English major while he was Working on a psychology degree. They had met in an English 101 class and hit it off right away. He took her out to eat lunch that day and they had done it every Tuesday and Thursday afterward. When the semester was over, they remained in touch and they began dating regularly. She moved into his two bedroom apartment on Mesa Avenue the next year and he had proposed to her on her twenty first birthday. She told him yes without a bit of hesitation and they were married at the courthouse only a week later. Things had seemed so promising then.
How quickly a life can be snuffed out like a candle flame.
She had been driving home one night after work and was hit by a drunk driver. She had died six hours later in the ER at Providence Medical center. The day she died, Clint had honored her life by getting trashed and passing out on the floor when he got home. He fell into a deep depression after her death and failed all five of the classes he was taking that semester. He lost his Pell Grant as well as his scholarship and there was no longer any possible way he could pay for school. So he had dropped out and six months later, the first bill for his student loans had come in the mail. His depression continued, and he decided that it was the apartment in which they had lived together. Too many memories. As soon as the lease was up, he had packed up all his things and moved out to Shelton, where he got a morning job as a dishwasher at Rosie's Steak House and an evening job as a cook at Jimmie's Bar B Que, both of which paid minimum wage. He had rented a small trailer on Antonio Drive and for the last year he has lived there while the bills piled up on the kitchen counter.
Tonight, he had made another attempt to drown the memory of his wife in alcohol and failed once again. While his depression was getting a little better, his drinking was only getting worse.
“Do you want another, honey?” The bartender was looking at him with one of her thin eyebrows raised. She was only in her early thirties but she looked more like forty five.
“Please.”
“You know, one of these days your going to kill yourself out there. I go against my better judgment every time I let you leave here. Didn't your wife get killed by a drunk driver?”
“That son of a bitch was an idiot. I drive even better drunk than I do sober. I'm more careful when I'm drunk. I don't want to get pulled over.”
“I've heard that one a million times, honey.”
Clint glared at her. “Joscelin, just bring me another beer please.”
Joscelin sighed and got another of those perpetually dirty glasses off the shelf, turned on the Coors Light tap and set the mug in front of him. She gave him a look of exasperation and then went to an old man at the other end of the bar.
Clint took a large gulp of his beer, set it back down, and got up from the swiveling barstool. He looked at his haggard face and sunken cheeks in the mirror mounted on the back bar for a moment realizing how tired he looked. He turned away from the mirror and crossed the room to the Jukebox, passing two of the tall, metal, circular tables and a pool table where two gentlemen were setting up a game. Clint deposited his quarter and selected a song by Bob Dylan.
The CRACK of the pool game beginning rang out through the Dylan song as Clint made his drunken way back to the bar. There was a smell in Lara's Bar and Grill like a mixture of spirits, beer, and hamburgers with an undertone of vomit, which seemed to waft out of the men's bathroom every time someone opened the splintered door. Clint drank some more beer and tried to hear Dylan through the whooping of one of the pool players and the whinny bickering of the other. A tall and well built black man sat down on the stool beside him and after a few moments, began making conversation. He had a very deep and seemingly silky voice, like Marvin Gaye. Clint thought this guy probably had no trouble getting a woman in the bedroom.
“How you doin?” The black man was looking at him with a friendly expression on his face.
“I could be better my friend. I could be worse. SSDD, I suppose.”
“What's that?”
“SSDD?”
The black man nodded.
“It's just a saying from a book I read once. It means Same Shit Different Day.”
Marvin laughed and it was a pleasant one, full and rich. Clint finished his beer as Joscelin came back to ask his acquaintance what he would like. “Just a coke, please ma'am.”
Clint got up to leave and stumbled for a moment. Marvin grabbed his arm to steady him. “You OK buddy?”
“Yeah, I'm fine, I'm fine. I'm just leaving now. It was nice talking to you.”
Clint got half way to the door before the black man called out to him. “Hey wait a minute!” Marvin walked briskly toward him and Clint turned around to see him. Marvin swam in his vision.
“You need a ride home Clint? I can take you if you want.”
“No, really, I'm OK.”
“You're sure?”
“Yeah man.” He laughed to show Marvin how fine he was. “Just as right as rain my friend.” Marvin gave up an Clint walked out the door, pulling his keys from his pocket. The air was refreshing out here. After the hot day, the weather had cooled off nicely and it had rained a little on his way out here. The El Paso Times had predicted a hell of a storm tonight, but Clint hoped that the little rain they got would be all. The roads were already slick.
Clint lit a Marlboro and walked to his car, passing a bearded man with ragged clothes on his way. The man smelled like he hadn't showered in a week.
“Any spare change?” The man had a raspy voice; full of gravel.
Clint reached into his front pocket and pulled out the pennies, dimes, and quarters that he had there. It wasn't much, but Clint didn't like to carry change with him anyway. Might as well give it to the homeless guy. He handed it to him and turned to his old Cadillac, a rusted piece of shit that he wished he could replace. He opened the door and got in, closing the door with a metallic CHINK! The interior smelled like a mixture of beer and potato chips; the remnants of both could be found on the passenger floorboard. Clint put the key in the ignition and turned it over a few times before the engine roared to life and Bob Seger welcomed him to the car. He was singing about that old time rock and roll and Clint turned it up. Shelton didn't have its own radio station, but they could get KLAQ out of El Paso, which played modern and classic rock.
The parking lot of Lara's Bar and Grill was muddy and for a moment, Clint thought he might get stuck. Finally the back wheels caught and he shot to the end of the parking lot. He pulled out onto Alameda Avenue singing along off key with Bob Seger. Lightning shot through the sky and was followed only a moment later by a loud burst of thunder. The wind was picking up and it tried to push the car around the road. Clint slowed from seventy to sixty and kept it there.
He was trying not to let what Joscelin said get to him. Yes, Mary had been killed by a drunk driver. If he had any friends, he would probably have a designated driver with him. He couldn't call a cab every time he went out, and it gets pretty old sitting at home drinking by yourself. The depression tends to set back in when he drinks by himself at home. Fuck Joscelin. She had no idea how it felt to be as alone as he was. She didn't know what it was like to walk into a restaurant and have the hostess say, “Will it be just one tonight?” while she smiled her cute high school girl smile. She didn't know what it was like to lose the only truly good person in your life. His father had never been worth a damn and his mother had died in labor.
The car drifted almost off the road and Clint jerked the wheel back to the left, righting it again.
They had been a great couple together. He could remember helping her make dinner, which he did often. They would sit at their table in their little apartment and eat listening to music. They would talk about school, speculate on how hard one class or another would be next semester, tease each other, laugh, compliment each other on a dinner wonderfully made. He couldn't make dinner anymore. And he couldn't sit at the table anymore. Every time he did those things, these memories would come back to him, and he would feel guilty, like he was being unfaithful to her. That was one of their things. He made frozen dinners now and ate on the couch so that it was easier not to think about it. They would clean up after dinner together and he would sometimes come up behind her and hug her, kiss her neck, tease her a little. She would reach behind his head with her wet hand and hold his lips to hers.
There was a girl out there on the road, standing beside her car. The car was billowing smoke from under its hood and she stood beside it looking in his direction, perhaps hoping that he was the help she had called for. She was a pretty girl, probably seventeen or so with blond hair. She was wearing a white tank top and her hair was held back by some sort of band. Nonetheless, her hair flew about her face in the wind. Her blue jeans had been cut off at the top of the thighs to make them blue shorts. Her arms were crossed over her chest and she was looking at his car expectantly as well as apprehensively.
Incubus came on the radio with that retarded song, “Drive”. He leaned over to turn off the radio, fumbling with the knob, and finally cut the words off.
He looked back up at the road and the girl. She looked like a deer caught in the headlights and when she put out her arms to ward him off, he realized she really was a deer caught in the headlights. He was coming right at her and she ducked to her right just as he jerked the wheel to the left so he wouldn't run her over. He slammed on the breaks and the wheels began to wail on the wet road.
There was a loud thump on the front of the car.
The girl sprawled over the hood, smashing her face into the windshield, and a large gout of blood, as well as some of her teeth spattered across it. There was another burst of lightning, turning the dark world blue and the blood deep purple for a moment. Another loud crash of thunder followed. The car came to a screeching halt on the pavement and the girl flew off the front of the car, rolling and shattering bones.
Clint's heart was beating fast and his breath was caught in his chest. He got out of the car and ran to the girl who was face down in the road. He turned her over and saw that, although she was still alive, she would not be for long. She was breathing in harsh gasps which strained through her ruptured lungs. Her skull had been cracked on the windshield and her face was covered in blood. Much of her blond hair was red now. Her arm hung in a way that it was never meant to, the bone poking out of the skin. Blood caked the front of her shirt. She looked up at him with one eye while the other hung on her cheek from its cord of nerves. Don't let me die, that eye seemed to say. Please don't let me die.
The gasps of air were getting fewer and farther between. Clint picked up her hand and it was cold already. He held it while she took her last few breaths. No thought was going through his mind at this moment. He could only stare at her dying face. The girl said nothing, hadn't the strength to say anything. In the movies, they always had one final line, but apparently not in real life because this girl died in silence while Clint held her cold hand.
He began to slowly back away from her in horror. There was no one else on the road. No one had seen him do it. It was almost two o' clock in the morning and Alameda Avenue was deserted. He thought about The Shawshank Redemption and how that guy had been brutally beaten and raped. Sometimes people got killed in prison. He thought about those bars and how they would be so cold when he put his hands on them. He thought about how utterly alone he would be in his cell.
Clint's ass bumped into his car as the rain began to fall around him. He looked up the road, saw no one, then back the way he had come. Far in the distance, he could see headlights. They were little more than specks now, but they would arrive very soon. He looked at the girl's car, where smoke was still billowing from the hood. He looked back at the girl. She was dead and there was nothing he could do about it. Clint still had a life to live.
He opened the door of his car and got in. Looking in the rear view mirror, he saw that the lights were a little closer now. They would be close enough to see him any moment now. The car was still running and as the rain began to come down harder, smearing the blood across the windshield, he got moving, turning on his windshield wipers as he did so. The blood smeared for a few passes of the wipers before it washed completely off. More lightning flashed in the sky, instantly followed by ear piercing thunder. His mind was racing.
What if he got caught? He could see all the charges against him now: drunk driving, reckless endangerment, involuntary manslaughter, fleeing the scene of a crime, possibly even murder. Who knows all they might charge him with.
He turned on the radio and lit another Marlboro attempting to turn his mind off. Last Kiss was on by Pearl Jam. He listened, not singing along this time, trying not to think about the girl. The rain poured down around the car, making it difficult to see through the windshield at all.
After what seemed like hours, Clint pulled into his dirt driveway, which was all mud now. He parked the car and got out. The accident had sobered him up quite nicely. The rain had slowed and the wind was gone now. He went inside and flipped the light switch in the living room. The storm had knocked out the power. With no electricity and clouds covering the sky, his trailer was filled with a darkness that was so thick he couldn't see his hand in front of his face. it enfolded him, seemed to embrace him, to move and shift around him as if it were alive. He could feel it like a weight pressing against his entire body. He wondered now if he was alone in the room. He told himself that there was nothing but he could almost feel it.
Clint put his hands out and walked to the hallway where he kept some candles in his computer room. His hand touched a wall and he felt along it, finally coming to a door. What if someone is behind this door, he thought. There was a creak behind him and he wheeled around, expecting to see someone. Of course, he could not see anything at all. “Hello?” he called out. No one answered. Of course not, he thought. If I were stalking someone in the dark would I say something when they called to me?
He turned back to the door, feeling along it until he grasped the knob. Then he remembered his lighter in his pocket. He pulled it out, flipped up the top and sparked a flame. It took a minute to fill the hall with light and, for a moment, he thought he saw something at the end of the hallway, standing in the living room. Then it was gone and he was looking at just the couch. The flame on his lighter began to get smaller and he saw that he was running out of fluid. He snapped it closed, wanting to save what was left for the candles.
Clint opened the door to the computer room and walked inside. He heard nothing. He never noticed how much noise the fans in his computer seemed to make until he couldn't hear them. The silence crawled around him the same way the darkness did. A chill went up his spine and he realized that the temperature had dropped. He thought about using the lighter again and, not wanting to waist what little fluid remained, decided to find the candles first.
He went to his computer desk, kicking the computer when he reached it. He felt along the desk and opened the top drawer. There were three candles in there and he pulled them out now. “I was eighteen years old.” A whisper beside him on the right. He snapped his head in that direction and backed up, dropping the candles on the floor. He still couldn't see anything. The darkness was too thick for his eyes to adjust to it. He tripped over a distortion pedal and fell, his head hitting his amplifier, his arms flying out and knocking over his guitar. It crashed on the floor beside him ringing out a discordant note.
“Who's there?”
No one answered the question. The silence pressed in around him again and the darkness continued to shift in front of him. He felt sure there was something in the room with him; that he hadn't imagined that voice. He got up and walked back to the computer desk. He bent down and hunkered where the candles had dropped. Christ it was cold in here. He felt along the floor for the candles. For an agonizingly long period of time, he found only dirty carpet. Then his hand finally landed on one of the candles. He picked it up, still hunkering and pulled his lighter from his pocket.
Clint struck another flame.
In the light of the fire, he saw that the girl was hunkered down directly in front of him. One eye hung on her cheek, the socket shattered. Parts of her brain showed through the cracks in her skull and the blood, which covered her face still ran down her cheeks. Her nose was a shattered wreck, and a good many of her teeth had been knocked out. Clint could not move. The girl leaned forward and blew out his flame.
Clint dropped the lighter and scrambled backward away from the girl he had killed only thirty minutes ago, ramming his head into the wall. He got up and ran for the door, which still stood open, hitting the door frame on his way out and then running into the wall across from it, pain coursing through his left arm. The door slammed shut behind him with a sudden, loud clap. He ran back to the living room and tripped over his own feet, sprawling on his face behind the couch. He could feel her behind him and he turned over, sitting up, his eyes wide, heart fluttering in his chest, skipping beats. “What do you want?”
“I want you to listen to me.”
“What?” He didn't understand. What was she talking about listen to her? “You're dead. You aren't supposed to be here at all.”
She said nothing.
“It was an accident! What do you want me to say? What can I say. I'm sorry.”
“Yes,” she said. “Sorry enough to flee the scene like a coward.”
“They would have put me in jail. It was only an accident. I don't deserve to go to jail. I've never hurt anyone in my life. What do you want from me?”
“I want you to listen.”
Clint said nothing now. Listen, she says. Maybe if he just let her talk, she would leave him alone. The silence pressed in around him again. She sat there saying nothing for some time. Maybe she was gathering her thoughts, trying to decide how to give him the message she wished to convey.
Not being able to see her was agonizing. She could be walking around the house or she could be standing a few feet in front of him. Maybe she was hunkered down directly in front of him or bringing her lips up close to his ear to whisper to him. He didn't know exactly where she was.
“I was eighteen years old. My name is Destiny and I graduated from El Paso High school just last year. My parents bought me that car as a graduation present. I got a scholarship to UTEP for finishing high school a year early. I was a math major. I finished my first year of college with a three point five GPA and my parents were so proud. They were going to let me live with them until I finished college rent free. I was doing so well.” Her voice had an angry tone to it and she seemed to be moving closer to him as she spoke, growing louder as she came to him.
“I was invited to a party in Shelton to celebrate the end of the semester. I figured, why not right? I didn't have to study for once and it was nice to get out for a while. They were all getting themselves drunk. They offered me drink after drink but I refused them one after another. I remember saying to one of them, 'No; I'd like to make it home alive, thank you.' If I had known what was going to happen, I would have gotten trashed, you know. Maybe it wouldn't have been so painful. I thought it was so sweet of you to hold my hand the way you did. It was the only redeeming thing about what you did tonight.”
Now Destiny was right beside him, whispering in his ear. It was freezing cold being this close to her and he was sure that he would be able to see his breath coming out of his mouth had there been any light in the room.
“My car broke down and I called my friend Lorenzo to come pick me up. It was his lights that you saw before you left. Before you turned and ran away. Ran away like a coward.”
She stopped and Clint got up, not intending to run away from her but hoping he could make her understand. “Look,” he said now. “I'm so sorry for what happened. But there is nothing I can do about it now. I swear to you that I will never do anything like it again. If I had it to do over, I would change it, but I can't.” All empty words. Of course he would never do it again, but that didn't change the fact of what he had done to her.
“You made a choice that ended my life when you got into your car,” she said. The power came back on then and the light in the living room hit him hard. He squinted his eyes against it, trying to see. She had moved away a little when he stood up and was standing there in front of him, wearing her blood soaked white tank top, her legs also smeared with it. She wore only one shoe, the other one having been knocked off when he struck her with the car. She held her arms out to him in a 'come here' gesture. One of them stuck out at an odd angle.
“Now I've made my choice too,” she whispered. “To end your life.”
Intense pain suddenly shot into his lower abdomen from the bottom of his chest to his hips. There was hard pressure there, as though an enormous fist had punched him in the gut, encompassing the entire area below the chest and above the legs. Numerous organs in his stomach were instantly obliterated and his pelvis shattered. He was thrust violently forward and his face slammed hard into thin air. His skull cracked open, ten of his teeth flew from his mouth as his jaw was shattered, blood pouring onto the carpet. His right eye socket was smashed and the eye was ejected, hanging grotesquely. He was thrown backward onto his back on the floor. He was trying to scream in pain as his left arm broke, his ribs shattered, puncturing his lungs, and several more chunks flew from his skull. Bones all over his body were broken, splintered, and sprained while organs ruptured and skin broke. He lay in a pool of blood, unable to move anymore. Clint had never in his life imagined that pain this intense could possibly exist. His body was raging with it from head to foot. Breaths were coming in hitches. His heart was fluttering feebly in his chest. He couldn't see much of anything as the one eye he had left saw through a film of red.
In his red vision, Destiny appeared standing above him and he tried to reach out his hand to her. She bent down, took it in hers and watched him die.
June 10, 2010

[Sickrose]

Re: Drive

Hey good job ! I really enjopyed your story :couple:

[woodpryan]

Re: Drive


Hey good job ! I really enjopyed your story :couple:

Thank you so much, my friend. Greatly appreciated. :rock: :dance:

[Sickrose]

Re: Drive

You're welcome. I thought the description of Clint's character and his despression was particulary good. I also liked the King and Dylan reference.

[woodpryan]

Re: Drive


You're welcome. I thought the description of Clint's character and his despression was particulary good. I also liked the King and Dylan reference.

I really tried to make clint 1. believable and 2. likable, even though he's an alcoholic. I think we can sort of feel for him in a way. His wife is dead and he's depressed. That's why he drinks so much. And then, oh shit, he killed a girl. But somehow, I was trying to get the reader to still feel for him and understand him. I spent a lot of the story building his character. I think it's about half of the story. Even him giving the money to the homeless guy is character building.

[Sickrose]

Re: Drive

I think you succeeded I did feel sympathy and thought giving the change to the homeless guy was a nice touch and it wasnt corny either.I thought it was beleivable.

[woodpryan]

Re: Drive

I'll be submitting this to Fantasy and Science Fiction Magazine in a couple of days. Anyone else have any advise before I do so? I've had a pretty positive response from my first readers so far.

[woodpryan]

Re: Drive

This gets sent off today. Fantasy and Science Fiction Magazine. Wish me luck. The Shadowman was rejected so hopefully this one is good enough to be published.

[Brice]

Re: Drive

Good luck! :)

[Sickrose]

Re: Drive

Hey good luck !! I like the addition to the ending. nice touch :)

[woodpryan]

Re: Drive


Hey good luck !! I like the addition to the ending. nice touch :)

thanks man. I appreciate it.

[Sickrose]

Re: Drive

You're welcome. I look forward to hearing how you get on.

There is a website called spinetinglers who have a monthy quiz as well. Maybe it's worthwhile sending it on. Just thought I would mention, i have submitted a couple of my own (unsucesful) stories there.

[Jack Torrance]

Re: Drive

Best of luck!

[woodpryan]

Re: Drive

thanks guys. i hope it gets accepted. of course, they buy first american publishing rights, so hopefully they don't consider it being posted on an internet forum having been "previously published".

[Jean]

Re: Drive

http://i91.photobucket.com/albums/k291/mishemplushem/Messages/good-luck.jpg

[woodpryan]

Re: Drive

The story was sent back to me with not enough postage so I had to re-send it. I sent it back to them on Tuesday with express shipping so they should have received it on Wednesday. Hopefully they will publish it. I would be so delighted to be able to say I got my first professional publication under my belt. :)

[woodpryan]

Re: Drive

oh, and thanks for the good luck teddy bear jean.

[woodpryan]

This is the second draft of my latest short story
*edited July 9th for logic




Erroneous Perception
By Ryan Wood



The interstate was almost completely devoid of traffic at this late hour on a Tuesday evening. It was a few days after the Fourth of July and firecrackers could still be heard every now and then between the droning monotonous music of the crickets. It was a clear night with few clouds and the moon was full. Her weekly Literature Meeting ended late tonight and Margaret Evans was driving home at almost midnight.
The meeting had been held at Janice Williams' house tonight and she lived in Huntsville, which was a twenty minute drive from Margaret's own home in Dennison. In attendance tonight had been Margaret and Janice along with Amanda Baranowski and Kathleen Walton. Sharron Danville had been sick tonight and had to miss the discussion of The Haunting of Hill House, which Margaret found quite disappointing as she was sure that Sharron would have had some excellent points to make on this short novel. The Literature club to which Margaret Evans belonged often took on a single author for a full month and the author they were discussing this month was Shirley Jackson. Each month a different member of the group would pick an author and it had been Kathleen Walton's turn. Kathleen always seemed to pick strange authors of which Margaret was not particularly fond. Next week they would be talking about the short story The Lottery and although this short story is very short indeed, Margaret thought there would be much to talk about next week.
A semi truck passed her on the left and she looked down at her speedometer. Fifty five. She sped up to sixty and held it there as Trisha Yearwood sang softly from the speakers of her hot pink 1992 Cadillac, which had been given to her for outstanding Mary Kay sales years ago.
Margaret was a little put off by the fact that she was the only person in the group who seemed to make any sense tonight. Amanda Baranowski was under the impression that everything had been in Eleanor's mind; that there had been no paranormal activity in Hill House at all. Margaret had pointed out the fact that when the banging was ringing through the halls in the upstairs corridor, Eleanor had not been the only one to hear it and that Dr. Montague's atrocious wife and the pompous moron who had escorted her to the house had made communication with something in the house. Well, Kathleen Walton and Janice Williams had not come to Margaret's rescue, saying they had no opinion on the believability of Eleanor's claims. They wanted to talk about other aspects of the novel, such as the fact that the women seemed more receptive to the phenomena of the house. Sharron would have agreed with Margaret, she was sure. There was nothing in the novel that led Margaret Evans to reject Eleanor's account. The woman had obviously seen it with her own two eyes.
There was a loud pop on the front passenger's side of the car and the car jerked violently to the right. Margaret pulled it back to the left, barely managing to keep it on the road. Now there was a loud buzzing on that side of the car, as if there were a giant hive of bees infesting her front passenger wheel. She did not slam on the brakes but eased the pedal down and slowed, not putting on her emergency lights because it would take her a minute to find them and she wanted her full attention on safely pulling over. She was now riding on the rim of her right front wheel and it was screeching loudly on the road. It was difficult to keep the car from veering off the road and she held the wheel with all the strength she had in her forty seven year old arms. Finally, she slowed enough to ease the car onto the shoulder and stopped.
She breathed a sigh of relief, turned the engine and the radio off, then found the emergency lights, which were on the right side of the steering column. She pushed the large button into the column and began to wonder what to do.
Margaret did not taken get any cell phone service out here and she had no way of contacting anyone for help. Margaret opened her purse and removed a pack of Salem Lights. She opened the pack, pulled her bic lighter out of it and stuck a cigarette in her mouth. Getting out of the car, Margaret silently wondered if this might be punishment for talking to the homosexual at the bookstore last week and even momentarily sympathizing with his inability to marry. She should have prayed for him this Sunday but she had forgotten and now she may be paying a price.
The night was slightly cool but, because of the humidity, it felt somewhat hot and sticky anyway, giving her an instantaneous dirty feeling. She stood by her car smoking, hoping someone would pull over to help her. She had a spare tire in the trunk, but did not know how to put it on. The stretch of interstate on which she had become stranded was long and straight. Anyone who saw her would have plenty of time to stop behind her. A cricket serenaded her while she smoked and the bug was beginning to get on her nerves. Headlights appeared around the last bend before her stretch of interstate and she began to wave her arms above her head, hoping beyond hope. As the BMW passed her she cursed, finished her cigarette and dropped it on the ground, crushing it angrily. She already wanted another one, but she was trying to cut back and decided to wait.
Her Lady's Rolex told her that it was now twelve thirty in the morning. Her husband would begin to worry about her soon. Margaret took the watch off her wrist and put it in the car on the passenger side, not wanting someone to steel it if they saw her and pulled over.
Another pair of headlights was coming now and she waved her hands over her head frantically, trying to get the attention of the driver. The Mercedes honked once as it flew past her. She waited a full ten minutes before the next pair of headlights showed up and this time the vehicle began to slow down as it neared her. Oh, thank you God, she thought.
It was an old rusted truck, she realized and with a sense of dread she noticed that some death metal band was blaring from the open windows. When the truck stopped, it backfired once before the driver killed the engine. Then the guy (she assumed it was a guy as no woman would drive such a thing) just sat there for a minute before getting out. The man was silhouetted for a moment against the headlights of his atrocious truck, his hair falling past his bare shoulders. She began to fear this man, wishing that he had continued driving. Why couldn't the BMW have stopped? As the man approached her, she saw that his hair was black and very dirty. It might have been washed last week, but she couldn't be sure. It might also have been a month ago. His bare chest was covered in tattoos and so were his arms. She wanted to cross herself, but thought it might set him off. The Bible clearly says not to mark the body and she would pray for him tonight. Here on his breast was a six point star. On his shoulder was some sort of demonic looking design she didn't understand and had never seen before. The man was wearing a pair of jeans that were very old and riddled with holes.
“What seems to be the trouble ma'am?” The voice was thick with country twang.
At first, she wasn't sure what to say. How many times had she seen a face like his on the news or in one of those horror movies her kids watched when they were teenagers? Did this guy really want to help? It was almost one o' clock in the morning now, she was on an almost deserted road, and she was only one woman who looked fairly attractive for her age. This man would have no trouble clocking her over the head and taking her to his house (or trailer more likely) and raping her until he killed her.
“Oh, don't worry about it, I've got someone on the way to help.” The words escaped her before she could stop them or think about what she was saying.
“Really? Why were you waving your arms in the air then?”
“I... umm... I forgot for a moment... that I had already... umm... called my son to come pick me up. He should be here any minute.”
“Name's William. You can just call me Billy.” Billy stuck out his grimy hand and Margaret merely looked at it, not wanting to touch it. He ran it through his hair as if this was what he intended to do in the first place. Margaret noticed how strong Billy was and realized that he could bring that hand down from his head and strike her hard enough to knock her out if he wanted. Instead, he dipped it into his jeans pocket and removed a pack of Marlboro and a Zippo lighter. “Why don't you just give your son a call and let him know that I'm already here and I'll get you all fixed up,” he said, popping a cigarette in his mouth, flipping open the lighter, and lighting up.
“Well... I...” She thought for a moment. The man had caught her in a lie and he knew it. She wondered briefly if he was angry yet. She could open her phone and pretend to make a call but she would rather keep pretending her son was on his way. “It ran out of batteries after I made the call.”
“Well what's the problem?” He strode past her and then saw for himself that the wheel had been torn to shreds on the front passenger side. He whistled loudly and asked her if she had a replacement.
“Yes, it's in the trunk. I have the tools to fix it too. I just don't know how.”
Billy took a step toward her and she backed up one step. She didn't know what he intended to do when he took that step forward but he stopped after that, looking at her in irritation. “Pop the trunk,” he said in a dry voice.
She went to do it immediately, not wanting to make this man angry, hoping that he wouldn't hurt her. After she popped the trunk, he removed the jack and tire iron, then pulled out her spare tire and set it on the ground as Margaret got back out of the car. He picked up the rod used to pump the car jack while she fumbled with her lighter, trying to achieve a flame in the light breeze. Margaret's hands were shaking and she could hardly get the stupid thing to spark at all.
Billy was walking toward her with the rod in one hand held out in front of him, pulling it back, ready to swing it at her head.
Margaret prepared herself for the blow, squinting her eyes shut and when the blow didn't come, she opened them again and saw that he was standing in front of her, digging in his right pocket. He had moved the rod from one hand to the other and it was now slung over his shoulder. He removed something metallic from his pocket. Oh god, she thought. He's going to stab me to death right here. Panic surged through her heart before she saw a flame in his hand. For a moment she didn't realize what had happened. Then she realized that he was lighting the cigarette still clamped tightly in her teeth. Margaret inhaled deeply as Billy walked around the car and dropped the rod on the ground next to her car on the passenger's side. Then he went back to get the base of the jack and the tire. While he worked, Margaret was relieved since she could stand at the rear of the car and keep some distance from the man. He made small talk while he worked but they had no common interests and he eventually stopped.
She continued to look down the interstate at regular intervals, wishing traffic would pick up a little. She felt sure that if there was more traffic, he would be less likely to try anything. But no more cars passed by at all while he worked and she realized that no one would be able to place this man at this scene tomorrow. No one would know if he stuffed her into his truck unconscious and took her home to do God knows what to her. She became increasingly nervous as he got closer to finishing and smoked continuously while he changed the tire. Finally, he finished and put the old tire in the trunk, followed by the jack. He came around the car last with the tire iron. She imagined it swinging at her head, connecting with her skull, and knocking her out. Margaret backed away from him when he brought this to the trunk and she almost ran into Billy's truck.
Then he was coming at her, striding over to her with his big muscles and she knew it was time. He reached up a hand in front of her face in a threatening gesture. Knowing he was going to strangle her, she squeezed her eyes shut again, wishing she had a can of pepper spray in her purse. She felt his hand close over her shoulder.
“I think that'll do it,” he said and squeezed. He removed his hand and began to walk around the front of his truck to the driver's door. “Have a good night.”
Margaret Evans was stunned. She had been so sure the man was going to kill her. Her mind was flooded with relief then and she began to cry a little. She watched by her car as William (but you can call me Billy) pulled back onto the interstate.
Margaret sat in her car for twenty minutes crying. She couldn't stop. She didn't know why she was doing it but the tears would not stop flowing. Maybe she didn't need to pray for the man she met at the bookstore last week and maybe she didn't need to pray for the man who had changed her tire. He had stopped to help her when no one else would. She realized now that she hadn't even thanked him.
Maybe she needed to pray for herself.

July 7, 2010

[woodpryan]

Re: Drive

Got a rejection slip from Fantasy and Science Fiction Magazine for this one today.

[Sickrose]

Re: Drive

I am really sorry to hear that man :couple: I hope it,s not discouraged you from submitting it elsewhere. You should still be proud of yourself for having the balls to do it.

If it's any consolation a lot of people on this site have said how much they like Drive - me included - which just goes to show what that they dont know what they are talking about.

[woodpryan]

Re: Drive

No, it hasn't discouraged me. I'm going to submit it to a few more places. I got a rejection from FandSF for "The Shadowman" too and I still submitted drive only a couple weeks later. I'm just going back over it now, trying to figure out why it was rejected to that I can improve. I don't know though. Hopefully I'll figure it out eventually. Thanks for that support Sickrose.

[Sickrose]

Re: Drive

No probs :) have you posted The Shadowman on here?

[woodpryan]

Re: Drive

yes, I have. You find it here: http://www.thedarktower.org/palaver/showthread.php?t=10623
I hope you enjoy it.

[woodpryan]

Re: Drive

Sickrose,
After the rejection of this story from Fantasy and Science Fiction Magazine, I have deleted and/or re-written about half this story (approximately 2,500 words of it). It now stands at 4,000 words, so about 500 words of it have been deleted. Some major changes were made to the story. I will not post it here as magazine editors actually do consider that to be in violation of the "previous publication" requirement, but if you'd like me to e mail you a copy of it, PM me. I figured you would be interested.

[woodpryan]

Re: The Shadowman

I read "The Boogeyman" yesterday and there were a few similarities. It wasn't too similar though. I don't feel like I've ripped him off. It's a pretty "stock" idea anyway. It's probably been written by tons of horror authors.

[woodpryan]

This is the first 1/4 of my latest short story titled, "House of Ash". I have decided not to post full stories anymore because magazine believe that to be "first publication" and they want those rights. So, what I will post here from now on will be first drafts of introductions. Please let me know what you guys think of this and if you want to read the rest of the story, PM me and I'll send it to your e mail.


It wasn't until his step-mother said not to go near the house next door that Matthew began to wonder. An unobservant child by nature, he hadn't given it much thought since they moved to Dennison, Alabama, but now he came to the sudden realization that the house was abandoned and had been for some time. He never saw kids playing in the front yard or some guy mowing the lawn, which had, in fact, taken on a life of its own with weeds overtaking the dead grass. There had at one time been a garden with a white bird bath, which was now faded to a light gray and grown over with weeds, which snaked around the bath and, in some areas, up the side of the house as though attempting to conquer everything in its path. The stairs leading up to the concrete front porch were flanked by a white railing, which was no longer white either. The railing was black in some places, faded to a dull gray in others, and in some areas the white paint still showed through like small islands surrounded by dark waters.
His mother's telling them not to go near it had sparked a mild curiosity about the house next door and Matthew had done what any ten year old kid would have done. He asked his best friend if he knew anything. They were sitting on Jimmy's front porch up the block on the opposite side of the street from Matthew's house. Jimmy smirked with an air of one who knows everything about it.
The interior of the house had been burnt to a crisp, according to Jimmy. His father, who was a firefighter, had helped to stop that fire from completely consuming the house. His father had been asleep when they got the call at two thirty in the morning, he said, and they had suited up and gotten to the scene within ten minutes.
Now Jimmy lowered his voice from the normal children's conversational tone to the conspiratorial whisper, of which only children are truly capable. His face became grave and he leaned forward on the porch to look Matthew straight in the eyes.
“Now, my dad didn't tell me this part. Kurt told me this part and he only knows about it because he overhead mom and dad talking.”
“What?” Matthew whispered, excitement rising in his throat.
“The fire wasn't an accident. It was set. The guy who lived there set it on fire, but he got trapped in there somehow. He couldn't get out and when my dad got there, the guy was laying on the floor, burning up. He was already dead.”
Matthew stared back at his friend dumbstruck. Who would set their house on fire? he wondered. Why?
“I heard my dad that night in my parent's room. The sound carries through the vents and I heard my dad...”
“What,” Matthew said, “What?”
“I've never seen my dad cry in my life, Matt. I'm telling you the truth. My Dad has seen a lot of messed up stuff an he's a pretty tough guy, but something terrible must have happened in there. If I tell you this, you better not laugh because my Dad is made of iron.”
Matthew nodded his head in agreement. He would never laugh at Jimmy. Two years old than himself, Matthew was lucky to have a friend like him.
“For the first time in my life,” he said, pointing a finger at him, as though threatening him if in case he were to laugh at his dad. “I heard my father crying that night. I heard him sobbing and crying and I never want to hear anything like that again, man. Your Mom said to stay out of there. I think... Maybe she's probably right.”

#

The next day, Matthew and his older sister stood in the back yard of the burnt house, looking at the windows and the back door. Matthew could see that some of the windows on the left side of the house had been blown out and that they had all been damaged by smoke. The frames were blackened as though a constant shadow were falling over them and the panes were covered in a thick brown dust. All those that were not shattered outward were opened. Glass littered the ground bellow those that were shattered. The house appeared to brood over the rear lawn as if it were angry at the job having been left unfinished. The back door was closed and untouched by the fire. Matthew wondered if it was locked. If it was, they had plenty of windows they could go through.
“Do you think what Jimmy said was true?” Matthew asked.
“Who knows?” Samantha shrugged, noncommittally. “The only way to find out is to go in. Or are you chicken?” Samantha looked at him in a teasing manner, her lips stretching into a smirk. She had long red hair flowing half way down her back. She was thin and, at four years older than Matthew, she was almost six inches taller. Today, she wore shorts and a red T-shirt. It was hot on this mid summer day in 1994, but Matthew still wore a pair of jeans, hating the way he looked in shorts. The house stood looming before them, casting its long shadow over them. A cicada was playing a maddening tune in a nearby tree. Behind them, there were no houses, only fields where cotton was grown. No one was home yet at their house. Their father and step-mother usually didn't come home until seven or eight o' clock and it was only five now. Matthew wasn't worried about getting caught going into the house. He was worried about what they might find inside.
“I'm not chicken. He just seemed kind of upset. He said that his Dad must have seen horrible stuff in there.” Matthew said, gesturing at the house.
“Well, lets go in and see then.” Samantha turned from him and walked to the back of the house while Matthew followed. Samantha put her hand on the doorknob and Matthew's breath caught in his chest, wanting to change his mind and at the same time, needing to know. The knob turned easily and Samantha swung the door inward.
What greeted them was a large sitting room in which the family could look out the windows into the backyard and the fields beyond. The room was mostly spared by the fire itself, but had sustained serious smoke damage. The walls were white at one time, but had been discolored to a light soot gray. A chair sat by the window with a light black dust covering the entirety of its surface. Book shelves had once lined the walls, but a few of them had fallen over, one of them blocking the exit from the room into the living room. Books littered the floor, some of them burned in places, some fat from water damage, and a few that were not so bad at all. Matthew picked one of these up as Samantha stepped on top of and then over the fallen bookcase, leaving the room to explore deeper in the house. The book was thin and the spine said The Dark Tower I: The Gunslinger. Matthew liked to read and he wondered if this had been a good book. He could imagine the owner of the house sitting in a chair by the window, reading and listening to music. Indeed, a stereo was in one corner of the room, the tape deck hanging out like a tongue hanging from someone's mouth.
The smell in the house was oppressive, somehow a wet and dry smell at the same time. It reminded Matthew of walking down this street on a cold January night when he could smell in the air that someone had their fireplace working. But this was much stronger. Although it reminded him of those January nights, it was really like nothing else he had ever encountered and can not be fully described here.
“Hey.”
Matthew jumped, startled out of his thoughts by the sound of his sister's voice. She grinned at the show of fright but said nothing. “What?” Matthew whispered.
“The kitchen is clean. The fire didn't get in there. That would confirm that it didn't start because someone doesn't know how to cook. But there's more. Come on.” She waved a hand for Matthew to follow her.
After leaving the sitting room, they were greeted by the living room, which was charred to a thick black. To the right of the living room was the kitchen, but Matthew wasn't interested in it. What interested him was the hole in the living room floor. The hole was rounded, approximately six feet in diameter and Matthew could see nothing below it from his angle just outside the sitting area. The curtains had burned off the metal rails which held them. The windows, like those of the sitting room, stood open. Now Matthew understood why. If police or investigators wanted to come into this house, these windows needed to be open in order to illuminate the interior. The windows that were whole were covered in dust thick enough to allow little light to come through. With the hole being in the middle of the living room, neither Matthew nor Samantha wanted to explore the room. The floor might be weak enough for one of them to fall straight through.
“Look at that,” Samantha said, pointing at the front door.
Matthew squinted, letting his eyes adjust to the extra gloom that this room contained. In the entrance was a decorative piece of wood, shaped in an oval with letters carved into it. Across the top of the board was THE WYATT FAMILY. Bellow this was GREG SHEILA KAREN FRANKENSTEIN. “Frankenstein. Who would name their kid Frankenstein?”
“You idiot, they probably had a dog or something and they named it Frankenstein.” Samantha rolled her eyes at him. “And look there. The guy must have been a drunk.”
A recliner stood in a corner of the room, most of it's fabric burned away, springs popping out through what was left of the seat like an array of Jack-In-The-Boxes missing the clownish heads. Beside the chair were bottles of beer, some still standing upright and others laying on their sides. Matthew counted eight of them. What remained of a couch had been flipped over. Video taps, CDs, cassette tapes, a TV, and other electronic equipment was strewn across the room and Matthew wondered how much of it had happened before the fire was started.

[woodpryan]

Re: House of Ash

This thing is now finished. If anyone wants a copy of the first draft, let me know and I'll send it to whatever e mail address you give me. Thanks guys.

Ryan

[woodpryan]

Re: House of Ash

The finished version of this story gets sent off to Fantasy and Science Fiction Magazine tomorrow. Wish me luck guys.

[Jean]

Re: House of Ash

http://i91.photobucket.com/albums/k291/mishemplushem/Messages/good_luck_graphics_07.gif

[woodpryan]

Re: House of Ash

rejected today. sending it on to Black Static.

[Jean]

Re: House of Ash

don't give up, bears are with you!

http://i91.photobucket.com/albums/k291/mishemplushem/Messages/goodluck20bears.jpg

[woodpryan]

Re: House of Ash

Thanks as always Jean. You're great, man.

[Sickrose]

Re: House of Ash

Hey man, I am sorry. I was wondering how you got on. It is good and someone will see that.

[alinda]

Re: House of Ash

Yeah, after reading it I too am wondering.
Ya know my mom writes and had tons of
rejection letters to prove it, but then one day
it happened. She became a published author.:thumbsup:
Don't give up as I am sure that you will be too. Good story.

[woodpryan]

This is a short story I wrote about a man who attempts to cheat on his wife, but finds himself physically incapable. My typical story is horror, but sometimes they are just about life, and this is one of those cases. I hope you all enjoy. Please comment after reading, whether or liked it or hated it. Thanks.

In the cool air of an October night James Marrin walked, languid, as if in a dream, toward the apartment of the girl with whom he intended to sleep tonight. He wore no jacket, but an open flannel shirt shielded his arms from the crisp air. He told himself that this was not revenge; that he was not trying to get back at his wife for cheating on him. He was merely setting his mind at ease. Maybe, after tonight, he could stop thinking about what she did eleven months ago and forgive her.
In a way, this was an attempt to save his marriage. He couldn’t go on like this, thinking about it every day. James tried to forgive her. He told her that he had forgiven her, had, in fact, told himself that he was over it. But none of that worked. The sound of her voice intruded into his thoughts, the sound she makes when she orgasms, that sound she must have made when she was with another man.
James reached the door. Was this really what he wanted though? How was this saving his marriage? Images of his wife flooded his mind. The way her red-brown hair shined when the sun hit it just right. The way she looked when the moonlight flooded through the windows of their bedroom onto her soft, silken, skin. The feel of her hand on his stomach while her head rested on his chest in bed. Her laugh, high and sing-song, lovely in its own way.
Raising his fist to shoulder-hight, he hesitated, sighed audibly, then knocked on the door. James waited, heard nothing for a moment. Then, when he was about to turn and walk away, the shuffle of feet behind the door. He stopped, waited. He heard a metallic sound and a hiss. Then, music began to play and the sound of the shuffling feet were approaching the door. James felt his chest constrict, stifling his breath while his heart hammered against his rib cage like a frightened animal attempting escape.
The door opened, and Elizabeth stood there smiling in welcome. She wore her brunette hair down and straightened (it flowed to the middle of her back), a sleeveless black dress, which stopped at the knees, showing off her lovely pale legs, and black high heels. James saw no bra strap and wondered if she had any of the strapless kind.
“I thought you weren’t coming. You were suppose to be here an hour ago. Dinner is a little cool.” She glared at him for a moment in a playful way, then stashed the glare away, her smile returning once more.
James hadn’t been sure he was coming either. He had sat around the house for thirty minutes longer than he should have, wondering if Melinda would come home, having forgotten something as she often does, then sat in the Mustang for thirty minutes after he got here thinking about her.
She hadn’t just cheated on him. She hadn’t done it this way; a one-night-stand with a co-worker. She had planned it out for months ahead of time and had been gone for a week. For two months before Thanksgiving came, she had spoken on the phone almost daily with her mother. Melinda hadn’t seen her mother in five years and she had suddenly gotten back in touch with her. Melinda had to see her over the Thanksgiving holiday. But when Thanksgiving week came, James waited most of the week for a phone call besides the initial “I made it,” call, and none had come.
He felt a strange emptiness in the house at her absence, the cool sheets in place of her warm body, the silence in place of her piano playing, He found himself reaching over to place his hand on her leg in the car and remembering it wasn’t there. At home, he waited by the phone, while, at work, he was unable to concentrate.
Finally, he dug out the old phone number list and found Julia Shuman.
“Mrs. Shuman,” he said when she answered on the fourth ring. “This is James. I was just wondering how things were going out there with Melinda.”
“Melinda? What are you talking about, James? I told her when she married you that I would never speak to her again and I meant that. I only picked up the phone because I thought she might have finally come to her senses. And since you don’t know where she is, maybe she has.”
Throughout this, James was speechless. As he began to stammer out a question his mother-in-law hung up the phone. James looked down at the dead line for a full minute, suddenly unsure of everything in his life.
James found himself deciding to give his wife another chance before she even got home. He knew he had been distant for a while, that he hadn’t been spending enough time with her, hadn’t been talking to her enough, showing her enough affection. What he didn’t understand was why she didn’t just say something to him. Why she had to go and do this. It was like a suicide attempt by someone who doesn’t really want to die. Someone calling out for help. His wife was calling out to him for help now. She wanted him to see her again the way he used to when he was in college and she was working at Laura’s Bar and Grill to pay for their little apartment.
When she got home, James and Melinda sat down and talked for a long time. Voices were not raised, objects were not thrown. The conversation had ended with Melinda weeping openly, her hands clasped between her heaving breasts, telling him she was so very sorry. So very sorry. They had settled on an agreement; that she would never see or speak to the man again, that if she ever did something like this again it would be over. For James’ part, he promised to be better for her.
And he was.
But for the next eleven months her affair had resurfaced in his mind again and again. He began to pick out everything he possibly could that was bad about his wife and store it away, as if saving up for some big blow-up when he would throw it all in her face and leave her. The affair weighed on his brain like a ton of manure.
Now James looked at Elizabeth in her black dress and felt that load beginning to slip off his shoulders. If he had done it too, there was nothing to be mat at Melinda for.
“Sorry,” he said stepping over the threshold of her apartment into the warmth. “Melinda was running late to work.”
Elizabeth heated up the dinner she had cooked while Beethoven played on the CD player. On the coffee table in the living-room were burning candles and two glasses surrounding a bottle of red wine, as if this bottle were the centerpiece of some work of art. James sat on the couch, placing an ankle on the opposite knee and waited.
When dinner was hot again Elizabeth set two plates on the coffee table, both filled with cheese, sauce, noodles, and Italian sausage. They ate and drank the wine, Elizabeth commenting on how much better she usually makes this dish, James saying how delicious it was, but otherwise neither of them having anything to say.
When the plates were cleared away and the wine glasses refilled, Elizabeth sat on the couch with her glass, leaning her head on James’ shoulder. He put his arm around her, trying not to be awkward and failing. Elizabeth drank her wine and stroked his leg, slowly moving her hand upward. This reminded James of his wife, how she would lay her head on his shoulder, her face turned toward the television, a glass of wine in hand, while they watched a movie. This was something they did together often.
Elizabeth turned her head so that she faced his neck and sighed, her breath hot on his skin. A tingling sensation flooded his spine as she began to kiss his neck. James tilted his head to make the access to that tender and sensitive skin easier for her and sighed, telling her without words to continue. This she did, moving her lips down his neck until his shirt prevented her from moving any further.
Elizabeth stood then, taking another sip of her wine and, placing it on the coffee table, walked around it to stand facing James. She stepped out of her high heals and pushed them away with one foot, looking at him with parted lips and half lidded eyes. Elizabeth removed her dress, pulling it down and stepping out of it. James’ suspicion that she wore no bra was confirmed as was his thought that maybe the dress and shoes were all she wore.
Now she stood naked in front of him, rubbing her pale skin with her hands, moving them over her body. She was beautiful in every sense of the word. Her skin was creamy and unmarked. Her face was that of a goddess. She wasn’t too big or too small in the chest, but perfectly shaped, her brown nipples hard and also just the right size. Her waist was slim, but not skinny, her hips completing the perfect curve of her body. She looked much like his wife, except that Melinda had red hair instead of brown and she weighed about ten pounds more.
With such a beautiful woman standing naked in front of him, James was surprised and dismayed to find himself not aroused at the sight of her. She came to him and removed his shirt, kissing his lips, slipping her tongue into his mouth. She kissed her way down his neck, chest, and stomach, removing his trousers and boxers. Still, James was unexcited. He wondered what she was thinking, what she thought of him, still flaccid after all that.
Elizabeth looked up at him, her eyes hurt, but still wanting him. She tried a few more techniques with her mouth and finally James seemed to be ready. But as she mounted him there on the couch, the thought of his wife intruded again. The first time they made love, in James’ bed two months after they met, the lights off in the bedroom, and the moon casting a blue-gray light through the window behind the bed. The soft cadence of her breathing as she moved over him. The day they had stayed home when it rained and she had made him chase her through it, laughing and soaking their cloths, plastering them to their bodies.
James lay down on the couch and Elizabeth tried again, but it was no use. The song on the CD player was Moonlight Sonata, and he could remember his wife taking two months to learn the song, playing for two to three hours a day. He could remember standing in the hallway just outside the dining room where the piano was, closing his eyes, and letting the music flow through him.
Elizabeth and James tried everything they knew, sometimes succeeding long enough to come close to the act of sex, but never long enough for it to actually occur. Now, not only was the thought of his wife intruding upon his attempt at being unfaithful, but the embracement of his impotence. He was twentysix for God’s sake, not eighty.
Finally, Elizabeth looked at him in exasperation, her hair wild and in her face, her chest heaving. “What’s the problem, James?” She moved some of her hair out of her face and stood up, looking down at him on the couch. “Is it me?” James saw more than exasperation in her eyes. He saw that she was hurt; it was a feeling of incompetence. One with which he could identify.
James sighed and sat up on the couch. “No, it’s not you,” he said getting up and gathering his clothes. “It’s me. I’m sorry.” Now he was putting on his boxers and trousers. “I can’t do this. I guess I’m just not cut out for this kind of thing.”
Elizabeth was still looking at him with that hurt in her eyes, but also pity. He came to her after putting on his shirt and kissed her deeply. “You’re beautiful, Elizabeth. Really, it’s not you.” James finished dressing and left, taking one last look at Elizabeth, who still stood naked in the middle of the living room, her arms crossed below her breasts, her legs spread slightly open, and her head tilted to one side as if confused. He attempted a reassuring smile, but it felt ridiculous on his face, so he turned away and shut the door on his first and only attempt at cheating on his wife.

October 13, 2010

[Tito_Villa]

Re: The Affair

Cool i will defo give this a read later in my dinner hour :)

[woodpryan]

Re: The Affair


Cool i will defo give this a read later in my dinner hour :)

Fantastic! I look forward to reading your critique.

[Tito_Villa]

Re: The Affair

Im not joking, that's a really good short story. I was never too good at English so i can't give any technical terms, but i know what i like and i liked that :)

[woodpryan]

Re: The Affair

Thank you so much for your reply. It is greatly appreciated.
I must be out of my mind to do this, but I am submitting this, in its final draft (which is different in many ways) to Playboy Magazine tomorrow, which is the magazine I think it best fits. Wish me luck everyone.

[Tito_Villa]

Re: The Affair

Yup good luck with that, let us know if you get any feedback!

[woodpryan]

Re: The Affair

Thanks, man. :)

[LadyHitchhiker]

Re: The Affair

Please don't be offended but I am going to be honest.

Honestly, I really like your writing style, but I didn't truly care for the subject matter. Infidelity - to me - is never as interesting or appealing as it seems to be to other people.

But in my mind, if it weren't a friend I knew writing, and I just read it in a magazine, I would initially think, "well it serves the bastard right for trying to cheat on his wife!" But on the other hand, I don't know if I could stay with my other half if THEY cheated on me - I have an STD phobia, and who can blame me in this day and age? I don't blame the affair preying on his mind. I understand the need to try and understand where the other half is coming from. But even if I stayed with my other half, I could never bring myself to cheat on them.

But for me to even consider all those thoughts, it must have been decent writing. For me to empathize with someone who's committing a sin, to seeing this same story as something I could see in real life.

But the title seems a bit lacking to me. Sorry about that, but isn't this more about TWO affairs? Even if one was more failed than the other?

Playboy is a good choice. But have you considered Penthouse as well? I know that Playboy is a bit more artistic, so this story would fit best there, but Penthouse might be worth a go, too.

[woodpryan]

Re: The Affair


Please don't be offended but I am going to be honest.

Honestly, I really like your writing style, but I didn't truly care for the subject matter. Infidelity - to me - is never as interesting or appealing as it seems to be to other people.

But in my mind, if it weren't a friend I knew writing, and I just read it in a magazine, I would initially think, "well it serves the bastard right for trying to cheat on his wife!" But on the other hand, I don't know if I could stay with my other half if THEY cheated on me - I have an STD phobia, and who can blame me in this day and age? I don't blame the affair preying on his mind. I understand the need to try and understand where the other half is coming from. But even if I stayed with my other half, I could never bring myself to cheat on them.

But for me to even consider all those thoughts, it must have been decent writing. For me to empathize with someone who's committing a sin, to seeing this same story as something I could see in real life.

But the title seems a bit lacking to me. Sorry about that, but isn't this more about TWO affairs? Even if one was more failed than the other?

Playboy is a good choice. But have you considered Penthouse as well? I know that Playboy is a bit more artistic, so this story would fit best there, but Penthouse might be worth a go, too.

You have reacted to this story almost exactly how I wanted the reader to react to it. Yes, he is doing something that is WRONG, way wrong. Yes, you can still understand why he did it, although you don't agree with it. And finally, you can see this happening in real life (which it often does) and you tried to put yourself in his place. This was the effect I was hoping for. The title was changed to, "A Betrayal to Forgive," which implies that he must forgive his wife's betrayal to him and attempts to commit his own betrayal in order to forgive her. I was unaware that Penthouse published fiction. Thank you for letting me know. I always thought that was such a dirty ass magazine. I never really liked it. After Playboy, I'll submit it to GQ, then to Esquire, and someone suggested I submit it to Cosmopilitan. I'm not so sure about that one. I will probably submit it to Penthouse as a last resort. Yes, it fits best there after Playboy and GQ, but man I hate that magazine. Thank you so much for your feedback. It is greatly appreciated.

[woodpryan]

Been a while since I posted up a short story. I'm submitting this as my story in my college Fiction Writing class. Throw some feedback at me if you guys have some time. I hope you enjoy it.

Embers and Ashes

By Ryan Wood

Stepping out of the car, Matthew Sperry let his cigarette fall from his fingers to the driveway. He stamped it out with one black loafer, as he jetted smoke from his nostrils and slammed the door of his maroon ‘86 Camaro. The sound cut through the brisk October air and reverberated through the neighborhood, which seemed empty. Moonlight streamed down on over-manicured lawns. He stared at the house before him like a condemned man awaiting his sentence.

The house was more formidable than he expected it to be with an expansive yard dominated by an enormous pine. A porch swing on the front patio. Lamplight from inside the house illuminated a deep red curtain, which was drawn across the window to the left of the front door. The house was much like his own across town. The one he shared with his wife. After this, the miles, which stretched across the dinner table between them, could finally fade into nothing.

Matthew removed a battered pack of Marlboros from his front shirt pocket, pulled out another cigarette. His Zippo shook in his hand, the flame jittering on its way to light it. He took a deep drag and let the smoke trickle out of his mouth. His heart was a distraught bird beating frantic wings on its cage.

He started toward the front door. Stopped. Turned. Walked back to his car. Fuck this, he thought. I can’t do this. But as his hand groped for the chrome handle, he imagined his wife sleeping beside him tonight. Would she try to surprise him again with a new piece of lingerie, he wondered. And would she be disappointed when he chose instead to burn through more pages of the newest Jim Butcher novel?

Matthew took another drag off the cigarette and, turning back to the house, stomped it out beside the other. He thought he saw the curtain in the window twitch. She knew he was out here. He trudged up the driveway to the massive front door. Lifted his fist. Hesitated. Rapped his fist on the peeling deep blue paint.

A short moment later, the polished brass knob turned and the door opened on hinges that screamed, as if in warning. Telling him this was a bad idea. Jennifer stood there in the doorway like something out of a dream. She was a secretary at the software development company where Matthew worked, and even in the brief time she had been there, the mutual attraction and flirtation between them was blatant. She had long brunette hair, which feathered down her back and draped over her slender shoulders.

Jennifer was wearing a broad smile and not much else. A pair of red panties. A black tank top. He scanned her body. He could see that nothing supported her breasts, and her cleavage was on clear display for his eyes to admire. She had long, tanned legs. Toenails painted baby blue. A tattoo on her ankle; some quote in a flowing script. He couldn’t make out what it said in the soft moonlight.

Last week, during one of their frequent cigarette-break conversations, she had asked him out of nowhere, almost casually, if he had ever thought about cheating on his wife. She brought her cigarette up to her full lips, looking him in the eyes as she said it. He had stared at her, shocked by the implication in her voice and speechless for a minute before he dropped his own cigarette on the ground and walked back inside. Over the next few hours it became all he could think about.

“Hey,” Jennifer breathed before she pulled the door open wider and stepped aside. Music drifted from the stereo in the living room. Matthew could hear soft acoustic guitars and harmonious voices.

“Hey.” His foot moved toward the entrance, but he stopped. Shelly hadn’t done it this way; a one-night-stand with a co-worker. She had planned it out. It had taken weeks of secret phone conversations while Matthew worked late. She had spent a week seventeen hundred miles away in Shelton, Texas with her phone off. It had been almost a year since then, and Matthew had grown more distant with each passing week. This was his chance to fix his crumbling marriage.

Matthew stepped into the warm foyer of Jennifer’s house.

As she shut the door, he took in his surroundings. To his right was the dining room. A Mahogany table. A bouquet of assorted flowers in a glass vase. Walls painted deep blue. A black bookcase stocked with countless hardback volumes against one wall.

“May I?” Matthew asked, digging out his Marlboros.

“Sure.” Jennifer walked through the dining room into the kitchen while Matthew appreciated the view of her walking away. She returned with a small, round, glass ashtray as he lit the cigarette, squinting his eyes at the smoke.

“I try to smoke outside,” she said. “But, I think this is the perfect occasion for rule breaking.” The corners of her lips turned up in a mischievous grin.

Matthew knew that it had been months since her divorce – five or six, maybe. Jennifer’s ex-husband had left her when, after two years of marriage, they had discovered her infertility. A despicable reason to leave a woman, Matthew thought. She said he had stayed for two more years before he left. In the divorce, he had fought for nothing, leaving her the house (along with its grotesque mortgage payment), most of the furniture, and the car they had shared. That was when she started working for GemSoft. If Matthew remembered the conversation correctly, her father was helping her with the mortgage. She was trying to sell the house, though. Too many memories, too much space without the children or husband she had expected to have.

“Would you like one?” Matthew asked, holding the pack out to her.

Jennifer took the cigarette he offered, let him light it for her. She padded into the living room and Matthew followed.

The couch was soft-cushioned, deep red. The room was dominated by an enormous entertainment center sporting an expensive looking stereo and an exorbitant flat screen television. The walls were painted a deep purple, his wife’s favorite color. The floors were polished hardwood. Two glass end tables flanked the couch, and a lamp, providing meager light, stood on each of them. A red candle burned on the glass coffee table, exuding a scent like apples and cinnamon.

Jennifer handed him one of the glasses of wine from the table. He took it as he sat down, placing his keys and wallet on the coffee table. She sat beside him, leaving little space between them and turning her body toward him. His eyes darted to her breasts and then back to the entertainment center. Pearl Jam was playing now; Matthew’s favorite band since his teenage years, when he learned to play “Jeremy” on guitar in his bedroom.

Matthew took a long drag from his cigarette, the cherry flaring bright red in the dim room.

“I’ve never done this before,” he admitted.

A long, thoughtful hesitation before she replied, “That’s fine. Drink your wine, sweetheart. It’ll make you feel better. Don’t be so nervous.”

Matthew drank. Took one last drag. Extinguished his butt in the ashtray, meticulously spreading the black remnants of the once-burning cinder. He could think of nothing to say. He continued to stare at the entertainment center, as if there were more entertainment to be found there than in the half-bare brunette sitting beside him.

His wife had been foolish to turn off her cell phone when she went to Shelton, Texas… “to visit her mother.” If she hadn’t done that, he may never have caught her. But after a few days of no communication, any husband would begin to worry. He had found it strange that she had decided to rekindle her relationship with her mother after five years in the first place. When he called his mother-in-law to inquire about his wife, she had told him she hadn’t seen her daughter in five years. Ever since they had married, and she had vowed never to speak to her daughter again.

Jennifer took a large gulp of her wine, took a long final puff from her cigarette, and crushed out her butt beside Matthew’s. Her head came down on his shoulder, her hand on his leg. He could smell the conditioner in her hair. Coconut. A strong and fresh smell, as if she had just showered. She traced the tips of her nails along the inseam his khaki pants.

Matthew’s shoulders and neck stiffened. A rabid thing in his chest began frantically hammering, as if it wanted to be let out.

He was furious when he found out that his wife had lied to him, and lashed out against his mother-in-law, the sanctimonious bitch, over the phone. ‘If you don’t want to talk to her, why did you pick up the fucking phone?’ he screamed.

‘I thought maybe she had finally come to her senses. And since you don’t know where she is, maybe she has.’ The click in his ear was deafening – a shotgun blast, blowing apart the last of his hope that his feeling was wrong.

Now he could feel Jennifer’s hot breath on his neck, sending chills down his spine. He tilted his head away from her, exposing the sensitive skin there for easier access.

When he picked Shelly up from the airport, he had not spoken a word to her the entire way home. He let her babble on about her trip to see her mother uninterrupted. When they got home, he sat down at the kitchen table, lighting a cigarette. She knew what was coming and took the seat across from him.

‘I know, Shelly, so stop lying to me. I’m tired of hearing it. That mark on your neck is clear enough.’ He pointed at the hickey that was clearly visible just above her clavicle. ‘You’ve been lying to me for months, Shelly. All those long phone conversations with your mother.’ He shook his head. ‘I wondered why you kept sneaking off whenever you talked to her. But I trusted you.’

That’s when the tears began to flow down her cheeks. Sobbing, and sniffling, she apologized. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, covering her face in embarrassment and shame. The sobs wracked her body.

Jennifer was kissing his neck, biting and sucking, but not too hard. Not so hard as to leave a mark for his wife to see when she got home tonight. Her hand reached up to his crotch and massaged.

He had planned on demanding that Shelly tell him what she did. The whole thing. He would listen to the story in full detail and then tell her he wanted a divorce. But as he watched her cry at the table across from him, all the anger was drained out of him. She knew the mistake she had made. ‘I’m so sorry, Matt,’ she kept saying. It was even harder to watch when she took her hands away from her damp face and looked at him with her bloodshot eyes. ‘I love you.’

That was the problem. He loved her too, and he didn’t feel ready for their marriage to end. He had been miserable the last week without her. He knew it wasn’t all her fault. He was the one working too much. Fifty, sometimes sixty hours a week when a deadline was coming up. Too many dinners cold on the table when he arrived late from work. Too many cold shoulders when he worked from home on the weekends. He saw this as her way of crying out to him. Telling him the relationship was falling apart and that she needed him to pay more attention.

He had walked around the table and taken his wife in his arms, holding her as she cried. ‘Don’t ever do this again,’ he threatened. ‘Everyone makes mistakes. We all deserve a second chance. But, I will not give you more than that. Shelly, don’t ever let this happen again.’ He held her for a long time while she trembled and sobbed, her entire body shaking with the effort. When it began to taper off, they had a long conversation about how this came to happen and about the future of their marriage.

Jennifer lingered on his neck for a while, nibbling at the delicate skin there, turning it hot and damp, sending tremors throughout his body, his arms breaking out in gooseflesh before she yanked his sweater over his head, tossed it to the floor and clambered on top of him, straddling him and kissing him furiously, massaging his tongue with her own, nipping softly at his lower lip while he fumbled at her breasts with unsure hands until she began to work her soft lips on his chest and down his stomach, lingering over each crease of his muscles, which tightened and twitched uncontrollably beneath her moist lips; and she softly bit and sucked at his skin as she unbuckled his belt and stripped it off in one swift gesture, tossing it to the floor to accompany his sweater, but never loosing the rhythm of her lips and tongue and teeth, which continued on their downward trek until they were impeded by the fabric of his khaki pants, which she unbuttoned with her brown eyes turned up to stare into his own for a long moment before she pulled his zipper down slow and deliberate, meticulously parting the teeth one after another, an almost unbearable tease, before she slid his pants down to his shoes, which she pulled off without bothering to untie the laces; and her hands continued to roam his body, scratching softly at his skin, rubbing his stomach and then dipping down to disappear below his boxers for a moment, only to come back up again to his stomach, before she finally slipped the last of his clothing down his legs and cast it to the pile, her lips once again resuming their downward course to his inner thighs as he plunged a hand into her soft and thick hair far enough to rest on the back of her head, encouraging her to continue her tease until after she had kissed and bitten, touched and rubbed, licked and tasted every part of him that was not the one she wanted desperately to feel, her hand found him, after all of this, flaccid.

In their first year of marriage, Shelly was often plagued by nightmares. Matthew would be awakened by her moaning beside him, sometimes thrashing around, and on these occasions, he would shake her awake and hold her. Sometimes she wept. Sometimes she just shook like a frightened animal, clinging to him as tight as she could. For a long time, she always told him she couldn’t remember the dream. He knew that wasn’t true, but was also aware that she would tell him when she was ready. After her nightmares, he would sing to her until her shaking or sobbing relented and she fell back into the clutches of sleep like a child in her mother’s arms. After the first year, she finally told him one night, out of the blue, what the dreams were about. He had not asked, and was not expecting it. She was raped at fifteen, an experience that had many consequences in her life. Her mother and father divorced when she was sixteen after the rapes became too obvious for her alcoholic mother to ignore. Shelly did not date for the first time until she was eighteen, when she met and fell in love with a man named Corey Farley. But her experience spawned a deep fear of intimacy, and she loathed even the though of it. After two years with no sexual interaction at all, Corey left her.

Jennifer stood, moved around the table, a faster, more driving song on the stereo now, and she began to slide her hands over her own body. She slipped her shirt upward in slow, meticulous movements, as if time were meaningless, revealing a flat, toned stomach and full breasts. Finally, she lifted it over her head, her hair falling around her shoulders and into her face. Her skin was lightly tanned. Matthew had longed to see her body for months, and he was astounded to find himself not aroused by the sight. She slid her underwear down her long legs and sauntered back to him, without the slightest hint of self-consciousness. When she reached him, she straddled him there on the couch, kissing him again, her tongue gliding over his, gyrating her hips, bucking against him. She plunged one hand deep into his thick hair, grasping and pulling at it from behind his head, her other arm wrapped around his back, clutching his warm body to her own.

Flaccid. By now, he was more than just nervous. He was embarrassed by his inability, a first for him, and could not stop thinking about his wife. Shelly was giving a test on T. S. Eliot in her American Literature class right this moment.

When Shelly finally stopped sobbing in his arms, she told him the truth. Corey Farley, her first love had called her a few months before her affair. Matthew was working late again, dinner growing cold on the table. She was upset, and decided to talk to Corey. She found that she felt better after having spoken with him, and they started talking more frequently. She thought about him often, even when Matthew was around, remembering how their relationship had been - how much she had loved him. When Corey asked her if she wanted to come visit him, she had been hesitant at first. He moved to Shelton, Texas one year after their breakup, but could never get over her. She was about to tell him no when he said that he had already bought the plane ticket. By this point, Matthew had seen her talking to him numerous times on the phone and she told him each time that she was patching up her relationship with her mother. She could not deny wanting to see Cory, and she told him without really thinking about it that she would come. This was when Shelly’s story that she was visiting her mother was born.

Matthew laid back, full-length on the couch, his mind racing, as he attempted to stutter out some sort of apology for his impotence, but Jennifer continued without hesitation, her lips moving down to find him still slack, before she engulfed him with warmth for five minutes that seemed to last forever.

Flaccid.

Over the last year, Shelly’s dinners became increasingly extravagant. Sometimes she would cook for hours before Matthew arrived home to find his favorite beer in a frosted glass and a clean ashtray on the coffee table. That would never have happened before the affair; she always made him smoke outside. She would kiss him at the door and ask him how his day was, often wearing a dress or a skirt. He always liked seeing the more feminine aspects of his wife - the dresses and skirts. He would sit down, drink the beer and smoke his cigarette, relaxing, telling her about his day. He would ask her about her own in turn, and listen to what she had to say. He ate her elaborate dinners with thanks and praise before she went to Dennison Community College for class. Matthew came home on time. He took her out more often. Tried to pay more attention to her. But his mind would often return to her affair, and the sound she makes when she orgasms, a sound he was sure she made with Corey.

Matthew flipped Jennifer over on the couch in a fleeting attempt to take control of the situation, kissing her lips and moving downward from her neck to her breasts and stomach in much the same way that she had done with him, putting his hands where he had been longing to put them for months now, groping what he pleased, tasting the salt of her sweat on his lips, feeling the swell of her breast cupped in his hand, the smooth touch of her creamy skin on his own.

Matthew’s sex drive with Shelly had slowly declined over the last year until it dwindled away to almost nothing. She would surprise him with new, increasingly racy lingerie when he was reading naked in bed. He would apologize with a yawn and a stretch, or a massaging finger at his temple and a grimace of pain. He despised himself for being unable to forgive her. He could tell she was trying.

When Jennifer asked him last week if he ever considered cheating on his wife, an idea occurred to him. If he had nothing to begrudge Shelly for – if he did the same thing – maybe he could finally forgive her. Their marriage could return to normal.

Flaccid.

He sat up on the couch and looked at Jennifer, the low lamplight glistening on her skin.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Jennifer looked at him, eyes longing. She did not cover her breasts, but reached out a hand to touch his bare thigh for a moment. Matthew knew she had been alone for the last several months, and he wished he could help her.

“What’s wrong with me?” she said.

“Nothing, Jennifer. You’re beautiful.”

She was much more than that. Physically, she was perfection. But he couldn’t tell her that any more than he could tell Shelly that no matter how hard he tried, he would never be able to forgive her, and things could never be the same.

Matthew’s mind was a spinning whirlwind of thoughts. He gazed around him in a daze. The pile of clothes cast to the floor like the discarded remnants of his marriage. The candle that burned, but would soon go out like any other flame. The ashes, all that remained of embers that once burned, scattered in the confines of their small container, now as cold as the three-word phrase he spoke to his wife out of habit. The glasses of wine as half-full as he would soon become.





February 16, 2012

[Hannah]

Re: Embers and Ashes

You're good with descriptive language. I wouldn't quite call this a short story, more of a vignette. That being said, I'm a huge fan of vignettes masquerading as stories. I think they can be more powerful than a classic short story with a quick arc. I liked the slow way the character comes to the realization that his marriage is over, and the way the story flashes in between him recalling his finding out about his wife's cheating and his attempt to cheat. The only thing I did not like was the numerous sentence fragments throughout, especially in the beginning. I think sentence fragments can be effective when used appropriately, but there were a few instances here where the sentence fragments distracted me from the story.

Overall though, good job. :)

[Xile]

Re: Embers and Ashes


You're good with descriptive language. I wouldn't quite call this a short story, more of a vignette. That being said, I'm a huge fan of vignettes masquerading as stories. I think they can be more powerful than a classic short story with a quick arc. I liked the slow way the character comes to the realization that his marriage is over, and the way the story flashes in between him recalling his finding out about his wife's cheating and his attempt to cheat. The only thing I did not like was the numerous sentence fragments throughout, especially in the beginning. I think sentence fragments can be effective when used appropriately, but there were a few instances here where the sentence fragments distracted me from the story.

Overall though, good job. :)

I agree with Hannah and praise your work! It really grabs attention and maintains it paragraph after paragraph. Well played, sir! Since you're submitting it for class and are requesting feedback, I only have two suggestions that stood out among the rest. In the third paragraph, you described how the cigarette smoke "trickled" from the mouth. Considering that I understand how another eye helps during creative writing and smoke myself, I'm not sure if trickle is the right word there. Flow or even bleed, maybe? Secondly, moving up from the end of the story to paragraph eleven (from the end), the smooth touch of her creamy skin on his own, might be reworded to the smooth touch of her creamy skin AGAINST his own? Just a couple of suggestions my dude. By all means, everything else was perfect and I'm not criticizing your work even a little bit. If I was your instructor, you'd receive a perfect grade from me and should definitely consider bringing some more material here! You've got a new fan bud. A+

[woodpryan]

Re: Embers and Ashes

Xile,
Thanks a lot. Those are two fantastic suggestions. I will certainly consider the first suggestion, and I accept the second suggestion (in other words, the next draft will definitely include it). If there is anything else you noticed (bad verb choice, bad adjective choice, annoyingly unnecessary adverb) by all means, I'd love to hear about it.
Hannah,
Thanks for that. I know that some people are put off by incomplete sentences and others are attracted to them. I am obviously of the later group. To meet those in the middle, I try not to include too many of them. Could you point specifically to which ones bothered you? There are quite a few, and I will not change all of them. But, I'm sure there were probably just a select few that bothered you. If they bothered you, they may bother other readers. Thanks. Also, as someone who disliked some of my fragments, what did you think of my giant run-on that begins, "She lingered there on his neck for a while..." Some people didn't even seem to notice it was a single sentence, while other readers seemed to have a very difficult time even getting through it. In the printed version, the sentence is a full page long.
Xile and Hannah,
Thank you two so very much for taking the time to read this story, and for giving me your opinions and feedback. I so greatly appreciate it. Thanks again.
Ryan Wood

[Mattrick]

Re: Embers and Ashes

I'd be willing to edit your work as best I can if you give my story, 'Many Ports In a Storm' a read. It's only two pages long. I noticed a few words that didn't flow well with the sentence they were in, an example from the first paragraph. "The sound cut through the brisk October air and reverberated through the neighborhood, which seemed empty. " The word reverberated just seems very out of place and if you say the sentence aloud, does not roll off the tongue well. I think that sentence should be added to the sentence before and refored to something like this:

"He stamped it out with his black loafer. Jetting smoke from his nostils as he slammed the door of his maroon 86' Camaro, it's crash resounded through the void, brisk October air." The end of your sentence 'which seemed empty' is irrelevant and added words not needed. You could simply use the word empty (or in my case I supplemented 'void') in a different place and convey the same thing.

A lot of punctuation usage that can be eradicated. Some sentences can be reformed and useless words omitted. I won't comment on the story itself as it is for college, the story itself only account for so much, where as how it's written and presented probably mean much more. Let me know if you want me to edit through it and I'll private message you how I'd edit it. Editing is fun :D I'm more able to help you with the technical aspects than your storytelling aspects as the story is something only the writer should have a say in.


This is simply a nit pick of mine with the story but I think you describe his actions of smoking too much. The reader doesn't need to know everytime he takes a drag or how much is left of his current cigarette. It's different if say, forming a shot in a movie and you want a shot of him taking a drag but in a story, the reader understands he is smoking and can envision the act all by themselves. I'd tone that back a bit unless you want your readers to all light up while reading it lol

I still follow the golden rule of thumb with art is 'less is more'. If you can say a whole thought with one word than do it. If you can omit five words from a sentence and get the same point across than do it. Stephen King in 'On Writing' says a great piece of advice on how he edits and this is paraphrased: "The finished manuscript after editing is usually about 75% of what was originally written. There are pleny of chances to rearrange sentences, find new words to use and sentences or paragraphs that interupt the flow, are redundant or can be omitted altogether." I can't remember exactly what he said but I remember the point he was making.

[Mattrick]

Re: Embers and Ashes


Considering that I understand how another eye helps during creative writing and smoke myself, I'm not sure if trickle is the right word there. Flow or even bleed, maybe? I'd use either oozed or excreted...depending on which flowed best in the sentence.

[woodpryan]

Re: Embers and Ashes

Mattrick,
I have posted my thoughts and suggestions on your story, "Many Ports in a Storm." I hope it is helpful. Please do not message me personally with your response to this story if you take the time to write a response. I would much prefer that you post it here on the story itself. Thanks for your time.

[Mattrick]

Re: Embers and Ashes

Okay I'll do this in two sections, I'll go paragraph by paragraph. I won't write out any suggestions as in how I'd do it, just what stands out to me as if I wrote it, how I would edit it.


Stepping out of the car, Matthew Sperry let his cigarette fall from his fingers to the driveway. He stamped it out with one black loafer, as he jetted smoke from his nostrils and slammed the door of his maroon ‘86 Camaro. The sound cut through the brisk October air and reverberated through the neighborhood, which seemed empty. Moonlight streamed down on over-manicured lawns. He stared at the house before him like a condemned man awaiting his sentence.

The second and third sentences are a little jumbled it. I wonder if 'one' decribing his loafer is necessary, who stamps out a cigarrette with both shoes anyways? I never have at least. Most importantly I'd work on a very catchy opening sentence, something that opens to the door to the synopsis of the story or at least the story thus far. A cigarette being dropped isn't too attention grabbing to me, maybe place significance on the cigarette early as it appears to be a theme, juding from the title.


The house was more formidable than he expected it to be; with an expansive yard dominated by an enormous pine, A porch swing on the front patio, Lamplight from inside the house illuminated a deep red curtain which, was drawn across the window to the left of the front door. The house was much like his own across town, The one he shared with his wife. After this, the miles, which stretched across the dinner table between them, could finally fade into nothing.

This is a suggetion (omitions are strike out, punctuation changes in bold) again which simply be your style in places. If the word 'which' is used during a pause, the comma always follows the word. It's something I used to get wrong all the time and still do today.


Matthew removed a battered pack of Marlboros from his front shirt pocket, pulled out another cigarette. His Zippo shook in his hand, the flame jittering on its way to light it. He took a deep drag and let the smoke trickle out of his mouth. His heart was a distraught bird beating frantic wings on its cage.


I think 'and' would make the first sentence flow in place of the comma. I agree wih Xile, trickle isn't a word that really fits. Perhaps slither?


He started toward the front door. Stopped. Turned. Walked back to his car. Fuck this, he thought. I can’t do this. But as his hand groped for the chrome handle, he imagined his wife sleeping beside him tonight. Would she try to surprise him again with a new piece of lingerie? he wondered. And would she be disappointed when he chose instead to burn through more pages of the newest Jim Butcher novel?

The sentence fragments at the beginning irk me a bit. It just doesn't flow very well. A good trick I've leard is to speak the paragraphs out loud to see if they sound natural. the beginning here is very jutted. But if that's your intent then don't worry about this. Forgot a question mark as well.


Matthew took another drag off the cigarette and, turning back to the house, stomped it out beside the other. He thought he saw the curtain in the window twitch. She knew he was out here. He trudged up the driveway to the massive front door. Lifted his fist. Hesitated. Rapped his fist on the peeling, deep blue paint.

Again I don't feel these fragments flow. They actually feel out of touch to me, with the rest of the story's style.


A short moment later, the polished brass knob turned and the door opened on hinges that screamed, as if in warning. Telling him this was a bad idea. Jennifer stood there in the doorway like something out of a dream. She was a secretary at the software development company where Matthew worked, and even in the brief time she had been there, the mutual attraction and flirtation between them was blatant. She had long brunette hair which, feathered down her back and draped over her slender shoulders.

Aside from the which thing and a unnecessary comma good paragraph.


Jennifer was wearing a broad smile and not much else; A pair of red panties and a black tank top. He scanned her body. He could see that nothing supported her breasts, and her cleavage was on clear display for his eyes to admire. She had long, tanned legs, baby blue toenails and a tattoo on her ankle; some quote in a flowing script. He couldn’t make out what it said in the soft moonlight.

Another good paragraph, just a few punctuation things again. I always find in some cases a comma can replace 'and' as well as vice versa. I changed the toenails description as it flows better this way with a comma instead of it's own sentence.


Last week, during one of their frequent cigarette-break conversations, she had asked him out of nowhere, almost casually, if he had ever thought about cheating on his wife. She brought her cigarette up to her full lips, looking him in the eyes as she said it. He had stared at her, shocked by the implication in her voice and speechless for a minute before he dropped his own cigarette on the ground and walked back inside. Over the next few hours it became all he could think about.

Nothing wrong with this. I'd maybe add a word like remained in front of 'speechless'.


“Hey,” Jennifer breathed before she pulled the door open wider and stepped aside. Music drifted from the stereo in the living room. Matthew could hear soft acoustic guitars and harmonious voices.

“Hey.” His foot moved toward the entrance, but he stopped. Shelly hadn’t done it this way; a one-night-stand with a co-worker. She had planned it out. It had taken weeks of secret phone conversations while Matthew worked late. She had spent a week seventeen hundred miles away in Shelton, Texas with her phone off. It had been almost a year since then, and Matthew had grown more distant with each passing week. This was his chance to fix his crumbling marriage.

Just a comma omittion.


Matthew stepped into the warm foyer of Jennifer’s house.

As she shut the door, he took in his surroundings. To his right was the dining room. A Mahogany table. A bouquet of assorted flowers in a glass vase. Walls painted deep blue. A black bookcase stocked with countless hardback volumes against one wall.

“May I?” Matthew asked, digging out his Marlboros.


I think could be all one paragraph. I think he's had five cigarettes by this point in the story and I'm not sure how much time has elapsed but it doesn't feel to be more than an hour. Perhaps some light on why he smokes so much if it's such a pivotal role in the story. Is he just addicted and a chain smoker or is it a result of coping with anxiety and nervousness? As a smoker that just seems like a lot of cigarettes, at least for a sober person. I guess by this point I'm looking for the smoking to start to be relevant beyod merely something provide some movement to the story.


“Sure.” Jennifer walked through the dining room into the kitchen while Matthew appreciated the view of her walking away. She returned with a small, round, glass ashtray as he lit the cigarette, squinting his eyes at the smoke.

“I try to smoke outside,” she said. “But, I think this is the perfect occasion for rule breaking.” The corners of her lips turned up in a mischievous grin.


It's obvious yo want to create sexual tension between these two considering the memory Matthew just had about what she asked him. I think I want to know more of the motivations behind it. All I got is that she has a nice ass and she hints with a smile. Maybe a breif description at the start of their conversation here on reasons for such a tension existing. Is he merely shallow and a nice ass it all it takes? Maybe a breif paragraph on their history would be fantastic. You metioned that their mutual attraction was blatant but..how? It might be best to describe how it is blatant instead of saying it's blatant, as that isn't much information. This is the perfect moment in the story to capitulate just what draws them together.


Matthew knew that it had been months since her divorce – five or six, maybe; Jennifer’s ex-husband had left her when, after two years of marriage, they had discovered her infertility. A despicable reason to leave a woman, Matthew thought. She said he had stayed for two more years before he left. In the divorce, he had fought for nothing, leaving her the house (along with its grotesque mortgage payment), most of the furniture, and the car they had shared - that was when she started working for GemSoft. If Matthew remembered the conversation correctly, her father was helping her with the mortgage. She was trying to sell the house, though. Too many memories, too much space without the children or husband she had expected to have.

A good job here of describing the marriage and aside from change I might persoally make to the punctuation (subject here, really) it's probably the best and most interesting paragraph in the story thus far. A good job of describing her situation. Though I would like to see not only the facts behind it but Matthew's thoughts on it as well, one nice little sentence at the end to surmise his opinion could benefit the reader in understand his relationship with her and he sees her as a person.


“Would you like one?” Matthew asked, holding the pack out to her.

Jennifer took the cigarette he offered, let him light it for her. She padded into the living room and Matthew followed.

One paragraph.


The couch was soft-cushioned, deep red. The room was dominated by an enormous entertainment center sporting an expensive looking stereo and an exorbitant flat screen television. The walls were painted a deep purple, his wife’s favorite color. The floors were polished hardwood. Two glass end tables flanked the couch, and a lamp, providing meager light, stood on each of them. A red candle burned on the glass coffee table, exuding a scent like apples and cinnamon.

I'm assuming the point of this is to represent that she is a woman of taste and style. I suppose I'm curious to know more about the style; is it retro or perhaps really modern or practical as it may reveal more about her character, why she has such furniture. Something as simple as a room in someone house can reveal things about them as a person. Take every oppourtunity available to allow the reader to fully realize a character's traits. I do like the touch of purple being his wife's favourite colour, shows she's still on his mind. I would like to see more of Jennfer's personait come through here though.


Jennifer handed him one of the glasses of wine from the table. He took it as he sat down, placing his keys and wallet on the coffee table. She sat beside him, leaving little space between them and turning her body toward him. His eyes darted to her breasts and then back to the entertainment center. Pearl Jam was playing now; Matthew’s favorite band since his teenage years, when he learned to play “Jeremy” on guitar in his bedroom.

Matthew took a long drag from his cigarette, the cherry flaring bright red in the dim room.

“I’ve never done this before,” he admitted.

All one paragraph. In her response she tells him not to be nervous when I didn't know he was particularily nervous. Maybe have his leg shaking to represent anxiousness.


A long, thoughtful hesitation before she replied, “That’s fine. Drink your wine, sweetheart. It’ll make you feel better. Don’t be so nervous.”

I'm not sure what is missing here but I feel there could be more to this.


Matthew drank. Took one last drag. Extinguished his butt in the ashtray, meticulously spreading the black remnants of the once-burning cinder. He could think of nothing to say. He continued to stare at the entertainment center, as if there were more entertainment to be found there than in the half-bare brunette sitting beside him.

Again, I'd like to see some significance in the smoking. To me it simply de-rails the story if anything. I don't thnk extinguiing a cigarette should be so important unless it means something. Maybe find a way for it to reprent his apprehensions being put to rest. If the cigarette smoking represents anything I haven't seen much of a clue as to what.


His wife had been foolish to turn off her cell phone when she went to Shelton, Texas… “to visit her mother.” If she hadn’t done that, he may never have caught her. But after a few days of no communication, any husband would begin to worry. He had found it strange that she had decided to rekindle her relationship with her mother after five years in the first place. When he called his mother-in-law to inquire about his wife, she had told him she hadn’t seen her daughter in five years. Ever since they had married, and she had vowed never to speak to her daughter again.

There is a lot covered here information rise but much like Jennifer's backstory paragraph, it holds no emotional weight to me. I mean, we're talking about infidelity and not of the greif he would feel is in here. I wan to know how it affected him and give a good emotional reason as why he's prepared to do what he's about to do.



I'll do the final parts of it tomorrow, hope this has helped!

[woodpryan]

Re: Embers and Ashes

Mattrick,
I have thoroughly enjoyed your paragraph-by-paragraph assessment thus far, and I'm looking forward to the rest of your comments. This gives me a fantastic insight in the thoughts of my reader as they go through the story. Many of your reactions are exactly the reaction that I intended to provoke in the reader. I will not address your questions right this moment, because I don't want to spoil anything in the rest of the story. I think we may be able to have quite an interesting discussion when you are finished with your comments, though. Thank you so much for your time. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it.

Ryan Wood

[Mattrick]

Re: Embers and Ashes

Apologize for having not finished, been extremely busy the last few days. Wil get to it tonight if I have the time.

[woodpryan]

Re: Embers and Ashes

Submitted my latest short story, "Embers and Ashes" to fiction365.com. You can read draft number 4 (I submitted draft number 8) here on the DT forums. Wish me luck with this one. If I get it, it will be my first publication outside of "Muse", the Calhoun Community College literary magazine.

[Shannon]

Re: Embers and Ashes

Good luck! :)

[Ben Staad]

Re: Embers and Ashes

Wishing you the best of luck!

[woodpryan]

Re: Embers and Ashes

Thanks, guys. :)

[Jean]

Re: Embers and Ashes

http://i91.photobucket.com/albums/k291/mishemplushem/Messages/good_luck_graphics_07.gif

[woodpryan]

RE: Embers and Ashes

Thanks, Jean.

[woodpryan]

Re: Embers and Ashes

Rejected today. Non-form, personalized rejection.

Hi Ryan:


We like the premise of this story, but the structure you've chosen for it means that there is an awful lot of exposition, which is always taking us out of the moment and thus lessening the emotional charge. We generally warn writers against using a "double narrative" structure like this, in which you move from scenes of one story to another, telling them bth. It can be done effectively, but we almost never see it - and most of the time that structure detracts from both stores, becomming less than the sum of its parts.

We would suggest cutting the story signifcantly by focusing on one of those stories (either the failed adultery or the conversation with his wife) and only giving us the absolutely essential information about the other one.

Hope this is helpful:


Fiction365

Who among you all interprets the last paragraph as an invitation to re-submit with the suggested changes?

[Shannon]

Re: Embers and Ashes

I don't know if it's an invitation to resubmit, but I like they they told you how they honestly felt about the story. I like that a lot. Also, I haven't read the story, but I think if you "focus... on one of the stories" then you're losing the other side of the story, which I think you included for a reason, no?

Shannon

[woodpryan]

Re: Embers and Ashes


I don't know if it's an invitation to resubmit, but I like they they told you how they honestly felt about the story. I like that a lot. Also, I haven't read the story, but I think if you "focus... on one of the stories" then you're losing the other side of the story, which I think you included for a reason, no?

Shannon
It was certainly included for a reason, yes. I wanted the reader to understand that his wife had motivations behind her affair, and I didn't want them to dislike her. I wanted her as well as her husband, who is attempting to cheat on his wife here, to both be sympathetic characters.
But, the backstory of his wife cheating and her motivations behind it was too big of a story to tell at the same time I told the story of the man trying to cheat on her, believing it would allow him to forgive her for her infidelity and move on with the marriage. It distracted the reader from the current story I was trying to tell, pulled them out of it, and lessened its emotional impact in the end. I think the editor is right that it needs significant trimming. But, I don't think it needs to be removed completely, which he didn't say he thinks I should do.
I have received enough form rejections in my time as a writer that I am ecstatic to receive this rejection. These guys (editors of literary magazines) have very little time, as they read so many submissions, that I regard it as a high honor to receive a personalized rejection.

[Shannon]

Re: Embers and Ashes

:) We look forward to your short stories.

[woodpryan]

Re: Embers and Ashes

Thanks a lot, Shannon. They are in progress as we speak.

[Brice]

Re: Embers and Ashes

We here at tdt are happy to personally reject you at every opportunity. :grouphug:


Seriously, I take it as rewrite and resubmit. :)

[woodpryan]

Re: Embers and Ashes


We here at tdt are happy to personally reject you at every opportunity. :grouphug:


Seriously, I take it as rewrite and resubmit. :)
Thanks, man. I appreciate your opinion. And I can't wait to receive a personalized rejection from the fine folks at "In Mint Condition". lol

[Jean]

Re: Embers and Ashes



Seriously, I take it as rewrite and resubmit. :)
bears think the same

[woodpryan]

Re: Embers and Ashes

Thanks, Jean. I'm working on editing the story now. I cut 1,250 words out of it today, but to me, it feels... like we don't understand enough about why he is doing this. So, I'm trying to fit in the most important parts of the backstory without putting in too much, and without being cheesy. That's not all that easy to do. But, it'll get there. It'll get there.

[Brice]

Re: Embers and Ashes



We here at tdt are happy to personally reject you at every opportunity. :grouphug:


Seriously, I take it as rewrite and resubmit. :)
Thanks, man. I appreciate your opinion. And I can't wait to receive a personalized rejection from the fine folks at "In Mint Condition". lol

I do hope you realize it was a joke. :)

Oh, and if you want someone to take a look at it I'd be happy to help if I can.

[woodpryan]

Re: Embers and Ashes




We here at tdt are happy to personally reject you at every opportunity. :grouphug:


Seriously, I take it as rewrite and resubmit. :)
Thanks, man. I appreciate your opinion. And I can't wait to receive a personalized rejection from the fine folks at "In Mint Condition". lol

I do hope you realize it was a joke. :)

Oh, and if you want someone to take a look at it I'd be happy to help if I can.

Yes, yes. Of course I did. I was just going along with it. lol. I appreciate the offer, sir. I greatly appreciate it. It will need to be looked at in its next draft before it's edited again and resubmitted, and I may just call on you. Thanks a lot.

[Brice]

Re: Embers and Ashes

Right on! Just let me know.