More NaNo forum prompts
I think it's the same characters as here - http://ladytwist.livejournal.com/28706.html It sure feels like them, anyway.
15, maybe 20 minutes, the prompt was the Spill Canvas - "This Is For Keeps". I hunted it out on Youtube, clicked play ... replayed it at least twice while I was writing, but never did look to see what time I started.
oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO
I'd known her a total of six months at the point I realized she was one of those the books are written about. The one true that inspired every poet, the one that would have made my pulse race ... if I had one, that is. I didn't know her name, and it didn't matter. She made me want, something I hadn't done in a long, long time.
Every night, she came into the coffee shop after work, nurse's uniform as rumpled as her thoughts. She'd order tea, no milk but a ton of sugar and sometimes lemon if it had been a good day, and sit in the corner booth. It was like she had some invisible wall around her, keeping the rest of the world at bay as she read. One hour it took her, five nights a week, and I found myself waiting, worrying, if she missed a night.
Oh, we talked, mostly mindless chatter about the skinny little romance books she adored. They gave her things I knew weren't in me to give, and I wondered sometimes if they were a guilty pleasure or a real desire. I was more inclined to think the former, since she was the one that referred to them as bodice rippers. Our pre-dawn conversations, however, lacked depth. I knew only slightly more at six months than I did the first time she came in. I knew I wanted, though. I wanted her ... more than just her blood, although I won't argue wanting that. I wanted all of her, everything she was.
It was unnerving is what it was.
Okay, so I wasn't an ancient old vampire, all skin and bones and wrinkles hiding in a coffin, but I was hardly new. Thirty years I'd been mingling with the humans, playing like I belonged, hiding reality behind a bright smile and tinted glasses, passing my lifestyle off as an intolerance for sunlight and nothing more. After all, if they know the monsters are real, they'll hunt us out and kill us all. Nature of humanity, I suppose.
But she was different. She got under my skin like none of them had before. Her voice, her smile, her smell - she didn't care for cologne. Our snippets of socializing when she placed her order, or when I brought her a fresh teapot, made me think she might understand. Madness, I know, but I wanted to lay it all out to her, for her, and somehow I just knew she'd accept it all.
I didn't remember hearing or reading about anything like this. How could one human woman unknowingly weave a siren's call into the very air around her? Was this how we found the ones that would be next? Had I called to my maker like this, and if so, why hadn't he told me? It wasn't like we even associated with each other, scattered as far as we were so as not to encroach on each others territories, and I couldn't very well just pick up the phone and call someone. Great conversation that would be. "Hi, just have a question. See, there's this woman, and well ... her blood sings to me. What does that mean?"
No. I wouldn't put that risk on her. She was mine, and mine alone. I would figure out what it meant, and present her with choices from there.
15, maybe 20 minutes, the prompt was the Spill Canvas - "This Is For Keeps". I hunted it out on Youtube, clicked play ... replayed it at least twice while I was writing, but never did look to see what time I started.
oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO
I'd known her a total of six months at the point I realized she was one of those the books are written about. The one true that inspired every poet, the one that would have made my pulse race ... if I had one, that is. I didn't know her name, and it didn't matter. She made me want, something I hadn't done in a long, long time.
Every night, she came into the coffee shop after work, nurse's uniform as rumpled as her thoughts. She'd order tea, no milk but a ton of sugar and sometimes lemon if it had been a good day, and sit in the corner booth. It was like she had some invisible wall around her, keeping the rest of the world at bay as she read. One hour it took her, five nights a week, and I found myself waiting, worrying, if she missed a night.
Oh, we talked, mostly mindless chatter about the skinny little romance books she adored. They gave her things I knew weren't in me to give, and I wondered sometimes if they were a guilty pleasure or a real desire. I was more inclined to think the former, since she was the one that referred to them as bodice rippers. Our pre-dawn conversations, however, lacked depth. I knew only slightly more at six months than I did the first time she came in. I knew I wanted, though. I wanted her ... more than just her blood, although I won't argue wanting that. I wanted all of her, everything she was.
It was unnerving is what it was.
Okay, so I wasn't an ancient old vampire, all skin and bones and wrinkles hiding in a coffin, but I was hardly new. Thirty years I'd been mingling with the humans, playing like I belonged, hiding reality behind a bright smile and tinted glasses, passing my lifestyle off as an intolerance for sunlight and nothing more. After all, if they know the monsters are real, they'll hunt us out and kill us all. Nature of humanity, I suppose.
But she was different. She got under my skin like none of them had before. Her voice, her smile, her smell - she didn't care for cologne. Our snippets of socializing when she placed her order, or when I brought her a fresh teapot, made me think she might understand. Madness, I know, but I wanted to lay it all out to her, for her, and somehow I just knew she'd accept it all.
I didn't remember hearing or reading about anything like this. How could one human woman unknowingly weave a siren's call into the very air around her? Was this how we found the ones that would be next? Had I called to my maker like this, and if so, why hadn't he told me? It wasn't like we even associated with each other, scattered as far as we were so as not to encroach on each others territories, and I couldn't very well just pick up the phone and call someone. Great conversation that would be. "Hi, just have a question. See, there's this woman, and well ... her blood sings to me. What does that mean?"
No. I wouldn't put that risk on her. She was mine, and mine alone. I would figure out what it meant, and present her with choices from there.