Will a bloody Mary sweeten the deal?

“You tell her.”

“No way! You tell her.”

“I’m not gonna tell her. Have you seen how hot she is?” Lazarus whispers hoarsely. His voice is drowned by the whimsical singing of the rotting hotty as she brushes her hair in the powder room.

“It’s kinda hard for me to look past the festering wound.” I wince at the recollection. “How did she get that thing, Mr Psychic?”

“Werewolf,” he responds, matter-of-factly.

I roll my eyes. Werewolves don’t exist. “Anyway…someone has to tell Elle that her phantom smell emanates from her fetid face.”

“Sounds like girl talk to me,” Lazarus shrugs.

A shiver scales my spine and quivers in my shoulders. “I don’t think I can casually work rotting lesions into a conversation about wardrobes and color trends.”

“Would a bloody Mary help you to open up?”

No, but a bloody Lazarus might. “I’ll give it a shot,” I grumble. “But, you have to find Desmond’s real address. Try the white pages.”


Is Deirdre successful? You decide what happens next:
A. Lazarus finds a Mary, makes her bloody, and sits Deirdre down for a face-to-face chat with Elle.
B. Deirdre sees her chance to escape from Lazarus’ company (how did she get into this mess, anyway?) and runs out the back door while Lazarus studies the variety of Desmonds listed in the white pages.
C. Deirdre and Lazarus chicken out. If they pretend it’s not there, it will go away, right?
D. Something completely different…

Would you like a little rot with that?

"Oh, you're thirsty?" She inquires sanguinely. "My dinner can wait. Why don't you, like, come inside for a drink?"

"Me, too?" I yelp.

"Totally! You've gotta join us!" Enthused, the woman grabs my arm at the wrist. "You're the best smelling thing I've met in awhile. Not the prettiest, though. My boots are the prettiest. Aren't they totally cute?"

"Totally," I grimace at the word choice. What's that smell?

I follow the jacketed woman over the threshold and into her home.

"Pick your poison," she laughs. Her slender hands gesture at a liquor cabinet. "Take whatever you want. It's no good to me. I don't drink...alcohol." Again, she giggles.

"Actually, I hoped for something warm." Lazarus insinuates as he enters the home.

"Oh, sure! Something hot, coming right up."

"What's that smell?" I can't hold in the question any longer.

"You're that smell." The girl answers. "And you smell so delicious."

"No," I counter. "I mean the bad smell."

"Oh," she stops bustling. The oblique kitchen light glints in wedges on her shaded eyes. "You smell it too?"

"It's hard to miss."

"I figured it was, like, a vampire thing. Ever since I got turned, the whole world totally smells." Then she smiles. "Except you, of course."

"Wait. You're a vampire?" Lazarus exclaims. "I knew it!"

"You didn't know it," I rebuke. "Just give it up, Lazarus. Your dark power does nothing but leave you in the, well, dark."

"You guys have powers? That's, like, totally cool."

"I do." Lazarus asserts. "I am The Vampire Lazarus, and I read minds."

No, you don't. I broadcast a signal on the mental airwaves. Lazarus doesn't tune in. Obviously, he listens to the wrong station.

"Really?" The woman coos, wide-eyed. "So, can you guess my name, Vampire Lazarus? Lazzzaruss," she repeats. "Laazzzaruss. Your name slides like a slippery snake. I like it."

"Of course, I can reveal your name, babe. But, it isn't guessing. It's prophesy. And, names take a bit of concentration. I need to gaze into your eyes."

Gosh, I don't think this postmortem flirting ritual could get any weirder.

"Come closer to me. Put your hands on my chest."

OK, yes it can.

"Relax." His fingers massage her shoulders.

It really can.

"Just relax."

With soft hands, he traces the line of her hood, all the while, penetrating its shadow with his lurid stare. "Just relax," he soothes. Like a priest blesses a dark sacrifice, he cupped his palms on the crown of her hooded head. "Focus on your name. Whisper your name."

"Elle," she murmurs. I roll my eyes.

"I have it," he divines. "As I unveil you, your name will be revealed."

His hands slip beneath her hood, sliding along her silken hair. In a sensual flourish, he brushes the cloth from her head. He staggers backward…in a not-so-aphrodisiac way. Clenching his hand to his face, he falls against the floor in an awkward convulsion that I'm sure I've copyrighted.

He's discovered the source of the stench. And, the smell is coming from Elle.

Hey, that rhymes.


The duo has become a trio, and it seems that one of them is truly decaying. What happens next?

A. Deirdre and Lazarus scramble their way out of the stinky house. (Does it smell like eggs in here?)
B. With his verbena-infused cape, Lazarus cuddles up to cry in the corner
C. Deirdre introduces Elle to a new perfume…myrrh.
D. They continue their search for Desmond, this time they use the white pages, and set off with Elle in tow (Or, is that toe? She definitely smells like one). Surely, Desmond will have some gas masks they can use.

Immortality in a bubble

"Why don't you use your dark power to find this Desmond fellow?"

"It doesn't work that way, Deirdre."

"More like: it doesn't work at all." I snort. The burst of disbelief blasts a string of verbena balloons from my right nostril. Whoa, immortal snot bubbles attack.

Their inflated bodies tickle delicate nose hairs and provoke a bout of effervescent sneezes.

"Oh no!" Lazarus exclaims. "The allergies."

"What?" Sneeze. "This is what," sneeze, "you're," sneeze, sneeze, sneeze "worried about?" With two hands, I seize him by the cape. Burying my face in his giant handkerchief, I unleash a fragrant gush of gassy goo. "My hay fever is worse than this."

"My cape!" He shouts, dismayed. "Aw, you've ruined it."

"I told you to loose that cape. You look ridiculous."

"It strikes fear in the hearts of my victims." He pouts.

"It strikes laughter in the bellies of your victims, is more like it."

Considering this possibility, he strips off the costume. "Fine. Let's just find Desmond before you decide to barf on my shoes."

Angry, he marches up the steps of the neighboring house and hammerfists the door. No one answers.

The house is dark, and the car is parked at the curb, yet the radio blares from the upstairs room. Obviously, the occupants vacation in New England for a clambake, but desire that would-be-thieves assume they're at home.

Not wishing to repeat his mistake, I target the next house. Mosquitoes buzz around the porch light as I approach the door.

Dressed smartly in a hooded jacket, a startled woman emerges on the front stoop. "Oh," she exclaims. "I was just heading out to grab a bite to eat."

"At this time of night?" Lazarus sprints toward us when he spots the live body on the porch. "You should be careful. Dangerous creatures crawl the night, and some of us are thirsty."


What happens next? You decide.
A. The decaying duo take the woman out for dinner.
B. The woman invites the two inside for a couple of drinks.
C. Deirdre bums an antihistamine.
D. The clambaking neighbors groggily stumble over to see if the promiscuous woman cares to join them.

Lost

A high-pitched shriek resonates through the dark house. The hulking form of Lazarus blocks my view, but judging by his girlish falsetto something has startled him.

"What the…" A female voice stammers. "Don't just…In the name of Christ, get out!"

"She compels us." Lazarus gasps and clutches at his chest. He stumbles backward, tripping over my good leg in his retreat.

"What? There are two of you?" The woman yells. "Get out!"

Now, she can see me, and I can see her. Blushed with warmth and embarrassment, her body trembles. Gossamer webs of blue veins imbrue the shroud of translucent skin. Froth clings to her inner thighs and slides in tiny torrents down her curving side. She gulps the humid atmosphere through parted lips. Her chest heaves with each shallow breath. Lavender, she smells of lavender.

Standing in a shell-shaped bath, this Botticelli goddess scowls incredulously as she grasps for a towel. The terrycloth brushes over the dancing flames that trim the tub in fragrant opulence.

"What is wrong with you?" She shouts, defiantly wrapping her towel around her dripping torso. "Why won't you leave? Just leave!"

In a fit of hysteria, she scoops up the nearby items in her shaking hands and hurls them across the room. Lazarus, still on the floor, sits up just in time for a hurdling votive to bonk him on the head. Purple wax splatters in his hair and dribbles down his unshaven cheek.

I sputter. Viscous liquid sprays my face.

"Deirdre!" Grabbing my hand, Lazarus pulls me toward him. "We have to go! That's verbena!"

"So?" I ask. Teetering like a toddler ice-skater, I struggle to my feet.

"We're allergic to it," he cries. "We have to get out of here!"

On the soap-soaked floor, he scrambles. Unable to gain purchase with his feet, he hauls his bloated body forward with his wimpy arms.

Globs of poison body-wash ooze into my eyes. Blind, I reach out for Lazarus and succeed in finding a handhold in his cape. Dragged by a vampire-sled I, the blind musher, skid across the slippery surface on my way to the front door.

Outside, the cool, vanilla air wraps around my slimy head. Lazarus wipes the verbena sludge from my eyes and face with the tail of his cape.

"Am I going to die?" My voice shakes without reason. How bad could it be? I've already died once.

"No," he barks. "But, we have to get help. Desmond will know what to do, but what house is his? The numbers, I've confused the numbers."

"Take me home," I groan. "I just need a bath. You're lost, aren't you? Who is this Desmond fellow, anyway?"

"Time! There's no time!" Lazarus shouts. "We have to find Desmond!"


Does the decaying duo
A. Tiptoe back inside to violate the sanctity of the kitchen sink?
B. Conduct a door-to-door search for Desmond and a public restroom?
C. Rush Deirdre to the neighborhood YMCA for a quick dip in a chlorinated pool?
D. Call the paramedics?

You decide. (As always, you may propose an alternative solution)

Uninvited

We turn onto Baker Street. Lazarus leads, leaping and pirouetting with arms outstretched. I limp behind.

Vanilla smoke laces the night breeze, which whips through the cookie-cutter homes. Obviously, a housewife on this street forgot to set her kitchen timer, and consequentially crisped the sugar biscuits. If she's not good in the kitchen, then she might want to reconsider her life on Baker Street. I'll be sure to tell her that. On second thought, I'd better help her move on from here. Hereafter Hotel is sure to have vacancies; of course, it might be crowded this time of year. Humans check in, but they don't...well, you know.

Lazarus stops short at a doorstep. Screwing up his eyes, he cocks his head to the side and listens. He listens to nothing. Then, he ducks down, lifts the corner of a ragged mat, and reveals a dingy brass key. He holds up the begrimed scrap like a prize.

"Dark power," he confides.

The key turns the lock. Leaning against the door, Lazarus meets with resistance. The door doesn't budge.

"You have to be invited inside," I whisper.

"No, I just locked the door." He stammers an explanation. "It was left open, so I'm testing to see if the key is still good. It is."

Unlocking the door he enters the dark foyer. "Follow me," he says. "I have acute, vampiric vision." Zombie-walking through the front hall, he shambles down a corridor, toward a seam of light. Dutifully, I follow. My vampiric vision must have yet to develop. I can't see anything in the windowless interior except for the light at the end of the hallway.

Sniffing the air, I identify a pungent aroma. The food in this house must be terrible. This baker cooks with lavender!

Why would anyone eat lavender? And, why would a vampire bake, anyway? Lazarus did say we were going to see a vampire who could help me, didn't he?

"This guy can be a bit high-strung," Lazarus admits. The low glow from beneath the door illuminates the underside of his dark chin, nose, and brow like a flashlight prop in the hand of a storyteller. "I'll go first."

A plump hand fumbles for the doorknob; his other hand clutches at his trusty cape. For a moment, he hesitates. He seems frightened. I lean forward in anticipation. With sudden gusto, he swings open the door. "Hey, I brought someone to..."

He freezes.

Inside the room, sits something shocking.


What is the unexpected something?
A. An empty casket surrounded by potent flowers
B. A filled casket and lavender incense to cover the smell of rotting flesh
C. A cauldron boiling over with odoriferous potions
D. A naked woman in the bath

For one kiss

Oh, but for one kiss!

Never in my mortal life did a man (or a woman, for that matter) plant a lusty kiss upon my face. Daunted by my superior intellect, would-be suitors eschewed me. Nervously, they avoided me, fearful that I might deduce their dark secrets from the quiver of their lips.

The kiss of death

Waxy hairs puncture the soft flesh of his neck, sprouting in patches of wiry beard. Beneath the scrubby skinscape, a torrent of dark blood rushes. Leaning close to his throat, I inhale the scent of humanity.

As it turns out, humanity smells a lot like composting garbage.

I make my move.

"You psycho! You bit me!" He shrieks. One hand clutches his neck, the other flails wildly, knocking over trashcans as it gropes blindly for a handhold.

I retreat, spitting foul blood and scraping my tongue against my shirtsleeve. I should've gone for the kiss.

"I think I got a hair." I flash a toothy snarl. "Is there anything in my teeth?"

"You're crazy! You know that?" He stumbles back against the rough wall of the lecture hall. "Why did you bite me?"

I shrug. "It's what I do."

"I knew it," he declares. "The dark power reveals all. You're a vampire!"

"Yeah, and you're what--a fat Spiderman?"

Intensely, he stares. His voice assumes the goofy intonation of an entranced psychic. "You think I look like a superhero, but you wonder why I keep this rugged beard."

"Yes, but only because a piece of it is still wedged between my incisors. Are you sure you can't see it?"

"It's the curse of being a vampire. I shave, but in the course of the night the hair regrows to its former length." He postures. "Ah, where are my manners?"

"Who knows?" I grumble, but hope he doesn't hear. His manners and sense of personal hygiene have called a labor strike, apparently.

"Let me introduce myself. I am the Vampire Lazarus!" He curtsies...seriously, he curtsies, flourishing his wrinkled cape. "So, Deirdre, what's your story? No luck grabbing a bite to eat tonight?"

"None," I sigh. "How do you know my name?"

"I already told you; it's my dark power. Your thoughts aren't secret from me."

So he says, but I don't recall uttering my name...verbally or mentally. I wince. What if he heard that? Quickly, I sing out an oral response to cloak the twisting thoughts in my head. "Mind-reading is a useful talent. So far, my only vampire power seems to be accelerated bruising."

"Interesting," he muses. "I know a guy who can help you find your true gift. Walk with me." He scowls. "Or, limp with me, if you'd rather. That is, unless you can fly."

Already, I'm stripping out of my tacky, fast-food uniform. Yanking off my blood-stained shirt, I shake my head. "I can't fly. Can you?" On its way over my face, the plastic name badge snags my lip.

"I'm working on it." He responds, eyeing me as I discard my shirt. Snared on the edge of the dumpster, it sags like the tattered, yellow flag of a cholera epidemic.

"How does this look?" I smooth my red, pleated skirt and re-adjust my knee-high socks.

Lazarus ogles the bit of lace that peeps above my low-cut camisole. Then, his eyes linger on a margin of naked midriff. "Like a vampish schoolgirl," he admits.

"Great." I lament and toss another vestige of my uniform toward the fortress of rubbish. My greasy hat flutters in the breeze before it bounces against the dumpster.

"Too bad this isn't a costume party," he grins.

"It's funny you should say that," I remark. "Because, you seriously have to lose that cape!"


What is Deirdre's vampire power? You decide:
A. Superhuman speed
B. Preternatural vision
C. Accelerated bruising
D. Other (please explain)

Blood heals

In a fireless flicker, the streetlights ignite. Gold illumination floods the sidewalk as I shrink back into the comforting shadows.

"Come closer." A voice slithers softly into my ear.

I envision the warm mortal lips that uttered the seductive phrase. They must belong to a college miscreant. Desperate to score, he waits for a curious campus visitor to naively venture down the alleyway. Surely, he has lured victims with the promise of warm meal and has provided false directions, which claim to lead to the cafeteria. The purchase of my dinner with his blood will be just dessert for this would-be predator.

I lick the corner of my mouth. Still smarting from my disastrous tumble, the cracked skin oozes.

Plunging into the shadowy tunnel, formed by the towering, two-story buildings, I stagger away from the bright gateway to the street and deeper into the throat of darkness. Already, a strange limp impedes my ordinary hobble. I need to feed. Blood heals all wounds.

"Hello?" I call out. My immortal voice shudders against the stone walls. "Where are you?"

"Come closer," he commands. Then, he hisses in a whisper audible only to my preternatural ear. "It's actually working!"

The little blue pill, which he has already popped (after pilfering it from his dad's medicine cabinet, no doubt), surprises him with speed and vigor. Won't he be even more surprised when I deprive him of the fluid engorging that organ! Males. They've only got one thing on the brain.

Scuffling from above attracts my attention. I halt.

A sneakered foot drops in front of my face. It dangles from a denim-clad leg. Another foot joins the first. Now, it's a pair. Patiently, I wait through more scuffling, the clanking of metal, and a heaving grunt. Shoving the structure with two flabby arms, the fat man drops down from the fire escape. He lands awkwardly, shuffles his footing, and poses with shoulders back and hands on hips.

The boy has delivered himself for dinner.

"At last, you've come," he drools. I drool, too. "You might even say that you're were compelled to visit," he babbles. "Now, a victim stands face-to-face with a nightmare."

Yes, a nightmare. Hunger claws at my stomach. Desire surges in my veins. I drop my gaze from his scruffy face. My lips slowly part...



What happens next? You decide

Does Deirdre:
A. Tackle for some ardent tonsil hockey?
B. Sink her teeth into his unshaven neck?
C. Lecture him about wearing capes after Easter?
D. Ask him for a bandage for her boo-boo?

Perspectives

Well, the characters are settled. Splendid names were chosen by all. The names I considered corny or superficial won in this round (accept it a benchmark for the rest of this story). I hadn't thought about surnames (they're those easy-to-forget, extra words that your modern society insists you drag around with you), but you surprised me by including some...clever people. So, I threw in suggested surnames, because you can never tell when they may come in handy in a jumble of words like this.

When I introduced you to the characters, I might have left out some minor character flaws. Expect them. Embrace them. They're staying.

Your task is simple: Read the two blurbs below, and choose a narrator. (Yes, they are both female characters. I thought about allowing you to choose one of the males as the narrator, but then I decided against it.) Indicate from which character's perspective you would like the story narrated. Only comments posted to this blog will be considered in the decision making process. And, remember: these characters have flaws that you have yet to imagine. Choose carefully.



Afterlife according to Deirdre Espy(#2):
Muscled limbs move swiftly. Feet barely strike the ground. He bounds gracefully down the darkened street; his bouncing strides propel him toward me.

He is a perfect specimen, and he is mine…at least, he will be. In the haze of early twilight, I lurk, waiting. I remain hidden from his vision, creeping between the marble façade of the lecture hall and the tree-lined curb of the city street.

"Good evening." He greets the postbox that stands between us.

What a strange creature! Obviously, he's deranged. Oh well, it's nothing that the dark magic can't fix. A few more footfalls strike the ground as he jogs away. Seconds slide by while I wait for tension to build.

Springing from behind the postbox, I launch into pursuit. Slamming the pavement with my sneakers, I break into a full run. Vampire blood speeds my steps. This mortal has no hope of escape. He will be mine!

"Oof." In a tangle of limbs, I hit the ground. Pain stings my cheek, my palms, and my knees. Groaning, I peel myself from the pavement. A little five-pointed star of blood shines at me from the asphalt.

Did anyone see that? Embarrassed, I glance behind me. Girls dressed in miniskirts giggle amongst themselves. Covering their glossy smiles with manicured fingertips, they snicker over a shared secret…a scandalous confession about a forbidden tryst, perhaps. Regardless, they're oblivious to my faux pas.

With a sharp twist, I perform an about-face and cast a fleeting glance at my fleeing prey. Away from me, he gorgeously capers with his two perfect, healthy legs. Why is death so cruel?


Afterlife according to Elle Dimsworth(#4):
I gotta be honest with you. I am totally loving this whole vampire/gothy fashion thing. I mean, what a great excuse to wear a little lace! Besides, I look hot in black.

Now, I just gotta figure out this mirror thing. I have fabulous clothes. I know I put them on, but when I look in the mirror, poof. Nothing's there. It could be worse, I guess. I could be naked when I look in the mirror. Thank heavens--I mean thank hell--I'm not. The only thing that could be worse than no reflection is a bad reflection. Although, I do look pretty hot when I'm naked.

Makeup is a total fail, though. I really gotta figure out this mirror thing. Until I do, I'll just powder my nose and hope for the best. Maybe people will be too busy looking at my boots to notice…they're really cute boots. I just wish I could figure out why they smell so bad. Yuck! This extra-strong, vampire sense of smell thing really sucks.

The Story

It's time to write a story.
Why?--because I say so.
What's this story about?--It's about vampires, of course.
What makes this story different from the vampire tales ridiculed on this site?--Well, it's different because I'm involved, and I won't be criticizing myself, obviously. But you know what, it's even better than that. This story is one in which you may participate. Think of it as a "Choose your own adventure" story (Aw c'mon, you remember those).

Essentially, as the story progresses you get to decide the fate of the characters, the decisions they make, and incidents affect them. So, in the end, if the story sucks (and not in the good way), then it's your fault. (See how I passed the blame onto you? Clever, hm?)

Don't worry. I'm sure it will be fine; I'll be chaperoning you along the way...and censoring you...and blatantly adding my own opinions and ignoring yours. It'll be fun.

Let's begin shall we? First off, we need characters. Below I've listed the four main characters and a mini-biography of each. Yes, I have stolen the personality traits from other stories. So, bite me. Or, sue me...whichever you feel is more appropriate (just kidding about that).

Our characters need names. That's your job. (Be sure to specify to which character your proposed name belongs. Using the number system I've provided is a very good idea.)

Cast of Characters
Vampire 1:
Male, The Sherlock Holmes of vampires

Vampire 2:
Female, A sleuth who uses clues to unravel mysteries

Vampire 3:
Male, The "Dark Gift" gives him the power to read people's minds

Vampire 4:
Female, The Daphne of this Scooby Gang (as in 'Daphne Blake' not 'Daphne the Laurel Tree')

Well, that's it for now. Tune in soon for the first chapter.

Ciao,
Ana

--Oh, and one more thing: if you don't have a sense of humor, then you can't play. Well, you can, but it'll frustrate you to no end. See you soon.

--Post-postscriptum: This isn't intended for role-playing (although, you're more than welcome to do that on your own, if you wish). This is a story in which I write a paragraph, and then you decide if the vampire saves the damsel in distress or if he drains her and dumps her body off a bridge to see what kind of splash she makes. Is that clear?

Preamble

I'm not a storyteller. I'm not really writer. That's okay, though, because this is not really a story. It's a mess of words with no direction or purpose, and even I don't know how it will end.

This is what I know: It's fiction. It's all made up. The whole thing comes from the depths of deranged minds (wait, did you say minds--plural minds?), and it's more likely to fizzle out than it is to conclude. It will never be a best-seller. It will never inspire the reader to greatness, but I guarantee it will make you laugh...or snicker...or (at the very least) shake your head and say, "Ana, that is the dumbest thing that anyone has ever written". Hey, that's something for which to aspire.

So, why am I writing this jumble of words that serves no purpose and has no goal? And, why does this story (if it can be called that) have a preamble?

Well, this jumble of words has a preamble because I hate prologues. And, even though this may be considered a prologue, the word 'preamble' makes me feel better about myself. Finally, I'm not writing this *ahem*story...you are. I'm just gluing it together.

Okay, that's a lie. I am writing it, but your deciding it. So, go ahead and torture me with your bad decisions. I'll find a way out of the mess you'll make for me...I hope.