The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

Newman 02


The shrill alarm annoyed, but did not fully awaken.

Then from downstairs, a harpies shrill voice sounded, “Kenneth Abrahms, it's time to get up!”

His Mother and, it was nearly nine thirty.

“You've got to get to the jobcentre, remember...” she called.

He remembered, so threw his duvet aside.

“Yes Mum,” he called downstairs from his bedroom door.

He looked to the mirror on the side of his wardrobe. Seventeen and slim, blonde hair and blue-eyed, he was attracted and attractive, to many.

Momentarily he debated on whether to shave or not; he decided not to and see how a fashionable growth might look.

Then there was the mode of dress to choose for the day.

Ken opened his curtains and looked out to the day, it was grey and looked cold.

'Big coat,' he mused.

He didn't have a big coat, but he did have a battered old poachers coat, to wear over a tee-shirt and tight jacket, with his blue-jeans and doc martens.

So that's what he chose to wear, for this greyest of days and shoving his hands into his coat pockets he went downstairs, searching for change for the bus.

“Time for a coffee?” he asked his Mother, noting the clock on the wall.

He had time, if his bus would be on time and, it rarely was.

Thus the debate was hardly difficult, “See you later Mum!”

He opened and closed the front door, still recalling the dreams, from the night before.

It still concerned him, having woken feeling as though he were disembodied...

Newman 01


Newman awoke, wide-eyed, surprised at every second of the Life he had been provided with.

Sandy, slightly-built and blue-eyed, Newman had no past or family to think of. What had provided for him was enough. He was alive, he thought, he was.

And that was enough for the young man, now.

He turned his head, from side to side, looking at the dusty white laboratory, with little cognisance of where he was.

Newman was alive; knowing that his awareness was only recent.

He was newborn and, was somehow aware of that fact, as he continued lying there, in the capsule they had provided for his birth, so many lifetimes ago.

Now the laboratory was empty and the scientists sat sprawled at their desks, before the instruments that had led to his eventual birth and growth, at this particular moment in time..

Then as the clear screen rose over him, he stared around himself and the laboratory, where he had found his birth and life, in this newlife.

Newman expected more than he found and found the dusty atmosphere of the laboratory cloying. Yet here it was and the moment was his...

He pushed the clear casing away from himself and sat, as best as his muscles would allow and asked aloud, “Please, tell me where we are?”

There was no answer.

The Scrawl on the Wall


Jamila Court looked into the bathroom mirror, situated just over the sink. It's white-frame betrayed secrets, the young Haitian American wished to keep hidden. But it did not of course, not from her.

Her hair had been black and kinky, now it was cut and shaven to the scalp; thus she had opportunity to wear a wig, to suit her mood that day.

And that day her hair was long and black, worn with a fringe, a half-inch above artfully shaped, tattooed black eyebrows.

Jamila scowled, as she looked to her own brown eyes, staring at her breasts.

'African-type,' she had been told.

They had been large, yet sagged, with wide aureole and prominent nipples.

That had been until...

She'd had several operations, so that her breasts now looked as she thought they should.

But, the first operation had left stitches that leaked blood and pus, in a country where the operation cost less, much less, than in the state where she lived.

Yet now, they were full and perky, as intended.

Downward though, was almost a symmetrical delight, shaven and surgically cut...

Above her fat-drained thigh's was a fashioned and tightened sex, that would please any man, or woman, for that is how she had designed herself.

Jamila glared at herself, with her hands either side of her impossibly slim waist: “Yes,” she finally decided, “I'll do...”

Turning from her reflected self, Jamila picked up the plastic case, with her lens soaking in it.

Popping one then the other contact lens in, her eyes turned from brown to greeen, which she preferred.

Abruptly Jamila scowled, a moment. She wanted a coffee, badly. So she chose to turn and walk from the bathroom and down the short hall to the main room. Trodding through the door she moved through to her small kitchen, still naked and desirous of her daily fix of java.

She chose to ignore the scrawl on the wall; the epithet of the day as it were, designed to promote her mood; an motivate her thoughts for the day.. They were sentences written here an there about her apartment in black script on her walls, here and there, so that wherever she went, Jamila could not ignore them. Yet, she easily ignored what she had written, as she padded through to the kitchen and the awaiting coffee-pot.

One of the first things she had written, back then when the black dog had allowed was, 'Be yourself and, Be Be True To Yourself.' It was beautifully pained in script, above the sofa.

She passed the sofa, without a glance to the wall.

As the made her way through to the kitchen, she also passed an exquisitely painted piece of black script on a wall that said, 'You are who You Need.'

It meant little to the bleary-eyed young woman, who caffeine-fix was the imperative, not words written to promote self-worth. 'Besides which,' she thought, 'I've got things to do.'

Jamila often had better things to do, than read her own words of encouragement, carefully painted, black on white, to help cement her clarity of thought, for just one more day.

'I am as I am,' a piece stated boldly, to the attractive young woman, whose self could never meet the image society might dictate and, she chose to ignore it also, as she turned on the coffee-pot, then sighed a long sigh, as she looked at the clock.

Jamila had slept little the previous night, having decided she identified with the character in a self-help book, called Amanda. 'In Your Own Skin', it had been called and, it had got under hers.

She drank her coffee, then dressed thoughtfully, in light blue sweats and and grey sleeveless tee. It was cool outside, but pleasant she found, as she stepped onto the fire-escape, for a smoke with her coffee, as the early-morning traffic began her day.

The coffee was strong, black and sweet. And, she sighed as she smoked, thinking of all that was to come later; wishing she were really strong and sweet.

Sinnerman - Epilogue



Chapter 2 It takes two


His piercing blue eyes surveyed the wasteland from the mouth of the cave, as chemical rain fell from the green and purple swirling clouds. It had rained for hours and where it fell it burned.

The rains were a remnant of the technology used in man's last war.

This was the first time Sinnerman had seen a storm of such intensity, since he had left the bunker where he had been made and, it fascinated him.

“I'm hungry,” a small voice whined, from behind the borne warrior.

He turned his head to look at the small figure huddled by the fire he had built.

Reaching into the front pack Sinnerman found a ration bar, that he threw to Cecilia, telling her, “Munch on that and I'll see what I can rustle up later.”

Refraining from eating the bar she had caught, Cecilia suggested, “Potato in the fire?”

“Make it two each and mustard sauce?” the muscle-bound man suggested with a grin, that the young girl returned quickly.

The two had become quite inseparable since their initial encounter and Sinnerman had grown to relish and treasure the warmth moments such as this gave him. He continued to glow inward as the storm raged outside and he prepared what would be their meal for the evening.

The seasons had ended since the end had happened. Now there was just what was and it was awful.

“Let's continue,” Sinnerman told his young companion with a smile, as the rains ended.

His destination was simple, to search for his doppleganger, who led the raiders who had taken the lives of many of the survivors. It was a compulsion that had overwhelmed him, until he met Cecilia.

The young girl had given him the urge to protect, as he continued his journey's through the devastated war-torn wasteland that was left after the war had finally ended.

There had been no victor, all had lost.

“Where are we going Unc?” the girl queried, squeezing his hand.

“Onward little-one, ever onward,” he answered, looking down to his companion with a smile.