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Addict
Join Date: Aug 2005
Location: New York
Posts: 106
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Writer's Woes
[disc:aac5b4955e]At first this will seem endlessly stupid, but there's humor burried in here somewhere, I hope. I think anyone who's struggled with ideas might get a kick out of this. [/disc:aac5b4955e]
Writer's Woes
He was, shall we say, a hard case to crack.
In my day I've seen tough cases. Real tough ones, like that time the janitor's "closet of delights" lived up to it's name. And don't even get me started on the popular girl's poisoning the cafeteria food. It was a death omen, I knew it from the start. Ashe just said it was sickly funny.
But to me, Krystal Washington, nothing is sickly funny. I've seen the worst of people, and I know it can only get darker before the dawn. If there is a dawn.
Maybe Brad is that dawn.
I mean, hot darn. Hunktastic.
He'd never look at me, though; my own interest in detective work has seen to that. I've ended up in enough odd places that I've been called Weird Girl Sherlock by more than half the school. Even the teachers slip up and call me Sherlock – especially when I bomb a test.
Which is like very test.
"put that snooping mind of your into math and maybe you won't fail so much!" they say, and I want to cry because it figures that I would be prone to tears, and everyone BUT Brad looks over. I used to think that maybe it was because he didn't want his icy blue eyes to meet my muddy brown ones because then I'd know his true feelings.
Yeah, right. Not a chance.
That's why I was so surprised when he came up to me as I was walking to the bus one October day. I thought I'd taken a paper or a pen of his by accident, or he wanted a book, or I had a "KICK ME" sign on my back, or something. No, instead he runs a hand through his white-blonde hair and half-drags me over to his buddy's car, though I don't care.
Brad. Was. Talking. To. Me.
And his friend drove a convertible. Not my preferred red – more like a burgundy – but it was a sweet ride all the same. I was surprised when his large hand closed around mine…and then his other hand was clamped around my mouth, and I was in the car, and there was shouting and screeching tires.
~~
When I woke up it was in a dark room, and me not having realized I fell asleep, then realizing that I must have been knocked out. I didn't know where I was, or why I was there, or anything, and there was Brad sitting in the corner of the room, looking out of place, though my head hurt so much that I couldn't tell if it was really him or not, or what had happened, or what was going on or…
Then I remembered. His hand over my mouth. I'd been kidnapped.
Clarissa stopped typing as fast as she'd started and started at the humming screen in disgust.
No, no, and no again. That wasn't right. It sounded so…middle school. So juvenile. So completely wrong for the real story she wanted to tell. And besides, she didn't really go in for junks, she liked those brooding types, guys that could think and did. Sometimes too much. Of course, the idea had potential. Krystal could explore both the dark secrets of the uberjock triumvirate as well as Brad…or he could take the darker path and ravage her, and she'd wind up a lesbian. Yeah! Dark was the way to go, but then there was the name, and the whole teen-detective idea. I was so cutesy in a trailer park kind of way.
No, it was time to switch gears. Something gritty and real…
Karen kicked the fender of her old VW bus, and then immediately wished she hadn't done. Not only did it further mess up her aching feet and worn (even tattered) shoes, it couldn't have helped the car – which was, invariably, held together with spit, prayers, and a lot of cut tape. It hadn't been that great of a day, and it was only going to get worse. School was, well, school; work was much the same way except for the fact that she was tired by the time she'd gotten there and she couldn't talk, eat, or listen to music while she went through the motions.
"Karen!" A screech came from inside the old farmhouse as she was limping up the steps. She sighed – her mother sounded like a harpy and was easily meaner than one. Karen knew the tirade that was coming next. It was always the same thing, three days a week: Karen would get a verbal beating (and sometimes, almost, a physical one) for coming home so late – though in reality it was just early evening – and not being a perfect child. But she couldn't tell her mother about work. She just couldn't. It wasn't that what she did was inherently wrong – she was a cashier at the hardware store, for crying out loud – it was that, given the opportunity, her family would take everything away from her.
She rushed in the door, hunching over and trying to disappear. She wasn't going to listen, she didn't have to listen. She bolted for the stairs, feeling her mother's claw-like hand on her arm before she broke free and was able to clear the last few steps and into her room, throwing herself onto her bed and clicking the door closed with a foot. The space was small enough to manage it. She could feel the tears welling inside her, threatening to make her explode before she could channel them out. One salty drop fell off her eyelashes and made a spot on her already splotched pillow. She bit back the rest.
They took everything from her. Everything she ever wanted, ripped from her grasp: if she was good at something, they put it to use. If she earned money, it went over to them. They expected her to be perfect, and gave nothing in return – only ridicule when she failed their expectations and the feeling that life was cruel.
A bit of metal swam in Karen's vision, through the tears still threatening to spill. It was silver, shiny, sharp, and reflected the light well. It was only the dulling razor from her bathroom kit, but just then, she wanted to become part of it; she wanted to shine and let the salty sharpness take her inner aches away. Slowly, carefully, she popped out the blades and positioned them over the underside of her arm.
The pace wasn't right. There was too much explanation, not enough gloom and doom. This wasn't real writing, she thought, just childish storytelling. Tempted to backspace, she just skipped down a page.
Blood was a good idea, but that story wasn't going to let her get into it properly. She glanced over her shoulder – Armando's chair was empty. No matter. She knew what to do.
The door, it's locked tight, and I'm trapped in here alone.
Even at my full strength, I wouldn't be able to open it, or blast the lock. And now I'm sitting in the shadows, bleak dark stone walls rising all around me, and I wish that my pale skin would help me fade. Oh, I'm fading…not from this place, but from myself. I haven't had another's blood run through my veins in a long, long time, and the whispering saps at my strength.
I can feel myself fading into sleep, but I can't let me go. I wish to be running through the cool, dark night, maybe with graveyard dirt healing my burning wounds. They don't even bleed, just crack painfully with purple oozing scabs. Hours pass? I don't know. I don't know much anymore.
The whispering is replaced, suddenly, with a clank of chains and a shout. "Your time has come, vampire!" And I'm doomed, I know it, sent back to hell where I belong. I won't even be able to get blood one last time, feel the ruby droplets grace my lips before they become a torrent of stolen life. I'm moving, though not by my own will; something is carrying me, and for a moment I panic and try to fight though I know I'm far too weak. They have me. I'm doomed.
But then I feel that the flesh touching mine is cold and dead, and I can breath a sigh of relief. Somehow, one of my own kind – or one close enough – found me, where I was hidden away, and now I'll be safe. The journey is long, but that doesn't matter. I'm feeling the breeze through my hair again, though over time it's gone lank, and I can see small pale lights flickering in the shadows, though they're far away enough to be comforting. Alien light is a relief when the only light for ages and ages has been shone into your eyes, sending waves of pain through your mind.
The cold someone lays me down on curving stone, and though it's hard it's molded, like it was made for me. I think I'm in a cave, but I can't be too sure.
I feel something cold on my collarbone, brushing along from my shoulder to my neck. "I won't hurt you, I'm here to help" is what I think I hear, but it's muffled, and I realize that whoever rescued me from the cell is about to suck me dry; but I've no more blood left to give. I feel a puncture, on the side of my neck, and there's no familiar warm, ruby trickle…
Wait. On my lips. My vision is getting better, my senses returning. I taste the blood, thick and sweet, and I gulp down what I can. The other vampire standing over me is a young man, a rogue of the ages, and he bit his own arm to save me. He pushes the cut against my own, and his lips brush mine, slowly at first, and then…
She stopped again, a crucial thought coming at the most inopportune time, as always. Could vampires even, you know, do it? If there was something wrong with that, then her plans for a story would be entirely ruined again, though the blood was at least gratifying. But if they were dead, you know, could they? Would it…work?
Clarissa turned around, but of course Armando was still out. She couldn't ask him. Maybe she'd have to return to humans, however much she loathed the thought. Maybe even a male protagonist; seeing things from another perspective couldn't hurt…
She was so, so beautiful.
I couldn't help but think about her. Her silky hair, her emerald-green eyes, her heart-warming smile. She laughed, politely, though I knew I was doomed when she looked at me. I was always there, a friend, and she took that at face value, never once looking deeper into me like she should have.
The phone call was a shock. Almost equal to what was said was the cold lack of concern in the voice. I was just…told, simply, what had happened. That my love had died.
Backspace, backspace, how I love thee! So much work for such a horrible turnout. She could only write from the standpoint of a guy if he was gay (well, probably) , so this wasn't going anywhere at all.
It was dark and cold and smelly like it always was, and Jasmine refused to be entertained by the graffiti on the walls any longer. She'd been staring at it for far too long, trying to find out it's secrets and discovering that it didn't have any. And then, to top it all off, she'd been sick, her gut wrenching up anything she'd tried to eat in the last day. Or two.
She wanted to think it was the idea that he'd left her, with no money and nothing at all except maybe some clothing.
And, of course, a living reminder that she'd loved him and he'd pretended to return her love.
She wanted to destroy all trace of him, but she couldn't. She just couldn't do what she felt she had to do, because this reminder was part of her, now. There would be no going back, even through the sickness and despair and pain.
If she couldn't get rid of it, at least she'd name it right. Something grand, fitting, beautiful if need be. And strong, to be stronger than it's mother. Stronger than her.
Maybe…maybe Anne, if it was a girl. She could only hope.
"Augh, it's freaking hopeless!" She pushed her computer chair back as hard as she could with the tip of her foot, spinning across the room more slowly than she would have liked. But it just wasn't going anywhere; maybe this writing thing wasn't going to be so glamorous after all.
"Even death isn't completely hopeless, Clarissa m'dear." Came a sultry voice from the corner, with a joking lilt to the words. Clarissa glanced over after force of habit, though she knew it was only Armando sitting in the ancient pinstripe armchair, back from his hunting for the night. She got up, heaving a sight for effect, and went to look for her razor kit. It was probably under the chair, she thought, lying on her stomach to see if it was. The strangest thing about her friendship with utility razors, boxcutters and knives was that Armando seemed to take all the pangs of self harm for her. The rush was gone, so she turned to writing and black coffee. But it just didn't seem to work, either.
She was just standing up, black leatherette case under an arm, when a chilled hand clamped around her wrist. Her palms were forced up, and the vampire looked from the scars lacing their way across either wrist, then matched her gaze with his red eyes. "Love, it's a waste of good blood. No more." And he kissed each wrist lightly on the largest vein. Clarissa shivered, but he dropped her hands and stalked over to the glowing computer screen. Every movement was refined, and elegant, made more so by his precisely tailored black suit. Even the way he hunched over the keyboard to get a better look at what she'd done looked good.
"No wonder you gave up, this last part's dreadful." He paused. "but the rest looks salvageable." He turned to look at her, and she felt that shiver again – Armando was smiling, his milky fangs brushing his bottom lip. He took a few slow steps closer to her. And then closer again. "And in case you were still wondering: vampires can."
__________________
The Jackal: Half a million. In cash. Half in advance, and half on completion.
Montclair: Half a million francs?
The Jackal: Dollars.
Montclair: Are you mad?
The Jackal: Considering you expect to get France in return, I'd have thought it a reasonable price
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