The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

Chapter One







It was late in the evening, more toward morning really, when the air outside is just starting to smell a bit more new before the heat contaminates it again. I was sitting in the comfortable darkness of the study, with the windows wide open, typing away at things and being alternately amused and irritated by the computer and those there who wished to speak with us. Louis was in and out of the room as well, so I didn't particularly notice when he got up and walked out yet again. It was only when he came back and stood just to the side of my desk that I looked up. His face, which normally reflects varying stages of calm, was tight and tense. I thought he looked like a small boy who has broken his father's prize vase and is unsure how to tell of the crime.

"What is it," I asked him rather impatiently. Nothing had happened to my knowledge so why was he acting that way? "What's the matter Louis?"

"The door, Lestat, didn't you hear the bell? At this hour of the night, it rang and it was her when I answered!"

"Her?" I wondered aloud, scanning my mind at the same time for some hint and finding nothing. Gabrielle was home? She'd come to me after so long, wanting a quiet and brief reunion. How wonderful! My smile beamed as I stood up, ready to go to my long-wandering mother.

"What the hell is the matter with you Lestat? Don't you have any idea who I'm talking about?"

I looked at him with slight surprise at the turn in his tone. With my brows raised I said quietly, "I can't read your mind you know. Who? It's not Gabrielle?"

He put his arms down by his sides emphatically and started to pace. Each step seemed to raise those arms back upward in re-animation, like some sort of strange machine. I knew he was agitated so I fought the urge to smile at the thought.

"Sometimes you are so thick-headed Lestat, I swear!" He said, his voice raising along with his arms. Ah, the machine has a soundtrack too, I thought. "You dream about her, you talk incessantly about this girl and tonight she came here to this our very home that she, no, that no mortal should know of! One of these nights your blissful ignorance will get us killed, do you know that?"

He rages so lovely at me that it is hard to hear these words, and interpret their meaning. Within seconds I review them, and slowly sit back in my chair, the glowing screen of the lesser machine completely forgotten.

"She was here? This girl... How do you know it was her Louis, you've never even seen her! What did she say? Is she here now?" I started once more for the door.

"No, wait," He stopped me. He was no longer loud or animated, just his usual docile self, moving to me with concern and halting me with a gentle hand on my shoulder. "She's gone Lestat. She was here, and I knew it was her from the minute I saw her. From all you've described to me of her, what you've seen in your dreams, and when I opened the door, she wanted it to be you. I heard her mind speak your name, and then say no, and then guess with my name, uncertain. She just said to me, 'Tell him I was here. Tell him I am real, please. Tell him to come.' and then she turned and ran off."

I was stunned at what he was telling me. "You didn't go after her?" I asked, almost angry. "This girl, who has plagued me for weeks, actually came here, to this house, and you just let her run off into the night?"

"I had to tell you." He said with a sigh.

"You should have grabbed her and dragged her right up the stairs to me Louis!" I looked away, angry. I'm sure he felt that there was no way he could have done the right thing, for what in all this was right to begin with? "I'm going after her. Why in hell she would be here of all places, I have no idea, but I'm not sitting here like it was some midnight sales call. She can't have gone too far."

Again I heard the sigh that had only served to make me impatient and irritated with him over the centuries. I went to the window long enough to look out over the flat expanse of the lawn and roughly pull the sash down, and then the draperies tight against the coming dawn. I had no intention of coming back soon.

I turned and ran down the stairs, hearing him right on my heels. Good, I thought, let him come along. Between his senses and mine the girl might just be caught. I might have my answers tonight.

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The thick, heady smell of the swamps nearby hit me as I moved with Louis, blindly, toward the nearest road. Our home sat well back off the road, and in fact was nearly unreachable by mortal means. That was necessary, and all for the better but it only further made me wonder if what Louis had seen was real. Maybe this girl was some sort of witch, or at least able to project images. Surely she could do that, at least to me in my dreams. What if she'd shown herself to Louis in the same way? I stopped when we reached the road and looked at him with enough doubt that he could see my thoughts if not read them.

"It was her, I know it, real and in the flesh Lestat. I wasn't suffering one of your visions." I said nothing to that, but got moving again. The daylight would come in less than two hours. He came, beside me and I knew he was using his mind more than his eyes, as I was, to try and find a clue on where she had seemingly disappeared to in the darkness. In the next hour we moved at a speed no one could have seen, searching the towns closest to us, and at last coming to the larger city, and scouring its alleyways, shops and clubs to no avail. We met up on a corner at the outside of the city limits, Louis shaking his head as he joined me.

"I feel nothing of her, anywhere." He said in a way that almost made me believe he'd have liked to find her. "She was real Lestat, you believe that don't you? How could she have vanished like that, so fast?"

I stood there with my hands on my hips, glaring at him, and at the lights of the city still visible against the lightning sky. It wasn't that I was angry with him for not stopping her to begin with, though that certainly would have made this all unnecessary. Damn her! What in hell was this all about anyhow? I looked back to Louis, as he crouched down resting his elbows on his knees, waiting for what I would do. Without a sound I went to him and pulled him up against me hard and fast. He didn't have to question further when I leapt up into the coming light of day and sped us off toward home faster than either of us could have gone on foot. As much as I liked or disliked this ability, it served us well at times and I wasn't one to refuse it when I needed it. Soon enough the thick green places that surrounded our home came into sight and I lowered us to the ground. I had to half smile as I watched Louis shake it off. No matter that his own abilities had increased substantially, there were still those things he had difficulty with, and now he stood brushing his clothes like some fussy traveler that's been too long in his seat. While he gathered himself, I let the last bit of the night wash over me. My head fell back and I let my mind go but I could not see her, or hear her. I heard everything but this girl in fact, and when I had silenced the static, she was still nowhere in my mind, not her voice, her face or her location. I was as lost to her cause and commotion as I'd ever been.

Louis and I walked home along the overgrown dirt road, and reached our room just as the sun was coming up in the eastern sky. The huge trees around the house and the outrageously thick velvet draperies gave us a bit of extra time, and in it, he looked at me with all the love and concern he ever had in times like these.

"She means no harm Louis." I said tiredly, taking off my clothing to change into something more comfortable. "She just wants me, she want me to.." I let those last words trail off, knowing he couldn't pry them from my mind. Knowing Louis and how he'd come to know me, he wouldn't even have to do that to know what it was the girl wanted. He just looked at me, as he too started to undress and move about so gracefully.

"I don't doubt that you believe that Lestat. I believe it too. I believe she doesn't mean us harm, but it's whatever she wants you to save her from that worries me, and you know it too."

I went to him and held him close in my arms for a long moment, then kissed his mouth fully, sealing closed the evening and all that had transpired. Now the sigh from him was resigned, as he gave in and rested his head against me. I caressed his back thinking soon we would sleep the day away and then there might be visions, maybe for both of us. Soon, when again the night woke me, I was going without him to talk to David and Merrick.







P.S.

To all my readers I will be adding more chapters when I get the chance.

I've been an avid reader of this forum for several years now. Like most people, I feel the same excitement others feel from reading the occassional diamond in the rough. Unsurprisingly, I don't get as excited reading some of the stories, and, in fact, I find myself smirking in amusement when I encounter stories about vampires. Even if people don't truly know vampires, it is not unimaginably difficult to take what little people know of vampires and turn it into an erotic story. Such isn't the case here.



I've debated with myself for the longest time whether to tell my story now, and finally I've decided to take a calculated risk. After all, properly done, one can send email over the Internet and make it extremely difficult to trace its origins. That and the fact that I live in a remote, third world country gives me the confidence that I can post here without endangering myself or my kind. Most people wouldn't believe it, anyway.



If it's not yet apparent by now, I am a vampire, and I would like to share some of the things that have happened in my existence with the hope that I can return to those authors the favor of providing me hours of entertainment reading their fiction.



I am not immortal. Vampires aren't. Though our lifespans are much longer than humans, we do die of (extremely) old age (in the order of three centuries, if one is lucky). As far as I know, we are of human descent. Our physiological makeup is very similar to humans from whom, I guess, we have evolved. One concept current myths do have right, though, is that we subsist on blood to survive, though the hunger comes much rarely than is commonly assumed -- something in the order of once every four weeks or so.



I have many stories and this is just one of them.





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Much the same way a woman start to feel the coming of their period, I had begun to feel the telltale signs of the onset of Hunger. Like a hunter, I set out to find my victim, and on this particular occassion, I had been searching for about three days when I found my ... mark.



I try not to hunt in any predictable pattern. On this day, I was walking up and down the streets of one of the subdivisions in the city that I lived in carefully scanning for opportunities to fee. A car with a solitary female passenger drove by and parked a few houses down the direction I was going. My heart started to race a bit as I picked up my pace and walked towards the car.



The lady got out of the car. She was dressed in a white collarless t-shirt and a pair of non-descript shorts. She was of average height and build, black hair and brown skin.



She moved to the boot of the car, popped the lid then started taking out plastic bags of groceries.



Trying not to appear too excited, I jogged over and greeted her.



"Hi! How're you doing?" I asked.



"Doing well. And you?"



"Not too bad," I replied. "I just moved into the neighborhood. My house is about 2 blocks from here. May I help you with your stuff?"



Before she could answer, I started picking up some of her bags.



"My name's Mark."



"Hi, Mark. My name's Sharon. And thanks."



She led me to her front door, put down some of her grocery bags and fished inside her short's pockets for her keys.



After opening the door, she set the bags down on the floor just inside the door and told me to put the bags beside the stuff she put down.



We went back to the car for the rest of her groceries. By this time, my body was already starting to react in anticipation of feeding. As with most hunger pangs, my stomach had begun its process of producing hormones -- gastrin, secretin and cholecystokinin -- causing my stomach to start producing acids. Unlike human hunger pangs, however, glands in my abdomen started to release another hormone. This caused another organ to produce a chemical which was now slowly seeping out of me like sweat. It had a scent similar to that of sweat albeit with a slightly sweet undertone. I had gotten used to it by now so that I hardly noticed when it started to waft.



"So how long have you lived here?" I asked, trying to make small talk.



"My husband, Arnold, and I have been living here for almost five years now. Er, would you like to come in for a glass of water?"



"Sure," I replied as I smiled and picked up the grocery bags lying on the floor.



She closed the door behind us and led me to the kitchen. I could see she was starting to sweat even though it wasn't a particularly hot day nor did we exert a lot of physical effort bringing in the groceries.



"I've been going around the neighborhood and have met some of my neighbors. This is a very friendly place. I'm glad I finally picked this place to live in," I said, continuing to make small talk.



"Well, Arnold and I like it. It's pretty close to his work, too."



"What does your husband do?"



"Arnold? He's a software developer. He works with embedded systems. What do you do?"



"Don't laugh, but I'm an antiques dealer. I find antiques from all over the country, restore them and sell them. You and your husband are welcome to come over to my place and check out the stuff I have there. I'm sure I can let go of a piece or two at no profit."



Sharon laughed. "Oh, I'm sure you don't need to do that ... and Arnold and I would be glad to come over. At the very least, we could welcome you properly to the neighborhood."



We chatted for a few more minutes and it was all I could do to look calm even though I was craving inside. The chemicals I was releasing into the air were obviously starting to have an effect on her as she was starting to sweat too and was beginning to figet a bit.



"Did you just come from jogging?" I asked. "You were in shorts. You seem to be in good shape."



"Yes, I went out jogging this morning. I try to jog every other day."



"Well, it's certainly done you wonders. You look really nice. Nice, strong legs." I smiled. By this time I could see she was starting to get really bothered.



"Are you alright?" I asked as she grabbed on to the edge of the table seeming about to faint.



"I'm alright. I just felt dizzy for a second," she replied. She seemed to shiver and cross her arms in front of her.



"You better sit down on the couch and I'll go grab you a glass of water."



Before she could protest, I grabbed her arm and saw her shuder visibly. I led her to the couch, sat her down, and walked back into the kitchen. There I took my time getting her her glass of water wanting to let the pheromones invade her system even more.



After about five minutes, I walked out with a glass of water in my hand. She was lying down on the couch with one arm stretched out in front of her, her hand underneath a throw pillow that lay strewn across her groin. It didn't escape my notice that the pillow was rocking back and forth on its precarious perch abover her.



She raised her head looked in my direction as I walked in. She seemed about to say something when her eyes rolled back into her head, her eyelids closed and a low groan escaped her throat. All the while the pillow continued to move on top of her.



I smiled as I closed in on her.



"Here ... have some water. You look hot."



She opened her eyes in time to see me dip my index finger in the glass of water then extend my hand towards her lips and wet her lips with it. With a small amount of pressure, I pushed her lips apart and met resistance from her teeth but only for a few seconds. Her teeth slowly parted allowing my intruding finger to enter the hot recesses of her mouth. She started sucking on my finger and I inserted it deeper into her throat, feeling her coarse tongue then pulling out again. The pillow started moving faster, more frantically.



Then I took my finger out of her mouth.



"What do we have here?" I asked as I moved to her midsection. I put my hand on the pillow covering her and looked at her face. She was looking back at me with a mixed look of longing and dread in her face. She started shaking her head in the negative and her mouth mumbled, "P-please ... no ..."



Still looking her in the eyes, I removed the pillow to see her hand had sneaked under the elastic of her shorts. From the movement of the cloth, it was obvious she was rubbing herself.



"That's a good girl," I said, and smiled at her. She closed her eyes.



Grabbing both sides of her shorts, I tried to pull it down. Her eyes immediately shot open and looked at me with alarm, but she didn't say anything. Her hand didn't even stop from its ministrations.



I pulled down again and this time I could hear her moan as she lifted her pelvis off of the couch. With the weight off, I was able to pull her shorts and panties down to her knees, then her ankles and off of her.



The delicious scent of her musk assailed my olfactory senses. I bent down and took a deeper whiff of her sex. I could see her hand now as it assailed her wet pussy. She had black pubic hair and her hand glistened with her juices. I could see her long-nailed fingers rub her clit in a circular motion with much force and erratic rhythm -- like someone desperately trying to scratch an unscratchable itch. She was a most delicious sight lying down on the sofa with only her shirt to cover her.



Wanting to see more of her, I split her legs wide. One leg I moved to the floor, the other I placed on top of the sofa backrest. Spread like that, it was only then that I noticed her other hand.



Her other hand was underneath her and pinned to the cushion. What I didn't know was that her hand had also sneaked its way between her ass cheeks. With her spread like this, I could see that she had the tip of her middle finger lodged into her asshole. While she was busilly frigging her clit, her other finger was inside her anus rubbing her inner walls.



With an evil grin, I moved back to the head of the sofa and put my hands on both sides of her face. She didn't even open her eyes, but kept mumbling over and over again, "Ahh ... fuck ... meee! Ah fuck, fuck, FUCK!"



"Where'd you learn to fuck yourself in the ass like that?" I asked.



I must've gotten through to her, lost as she was in the blissful throes of passion, since she increased the tempo of her rubbing and starting bucking her pelvis.



I tighthened my grip on her face and asked her again, "Where'd you learn to bugger yourself in the arse like that?"



Shaking her head, she muttered, "My cousin and I ... we ... I ... Ungh!" She must've orgasmed then as she stopped what she was saying and went slightly stiff, but only for a moment then she resumed frigging herself.



In my mind I was starting to think, So ... she and her cousin must've confided with each other ... probably discussed boys and talked about the things they did when having sex.



"So you and your cousin talked about masturbating and reaming your arses?"



She moaned "No" and shook her head, her eyes still closed.



"Then what?!" I asked. I could sense that she was getting even more excited as she started to tell me.



"My ... cousin ... he was the first person to fuck me ... taught me how fucking good it was. He'd position me on top of him ..."



Her frigging had become even more erratic.



"Then he'd fuck me from below. His hand would ... it would slide down my back, down my ass, take some of my cum onto his finger and insert it into my waiting hole!"



"Oh fuck .. fuck! I'd come so fucking hard!!!"



She shuddered, and apparently did cum.



Just then, I heard a car pull up into the driveway. I moved to the door and, looking outside, I saw a man get out of the car and head towards the door. I positioned myself behind the foyer entrance.



The knob turned and in walked the man I presumed to be her husband. He had some mail in his hand and was heading for the kitchen when the most unusual sight met his eyes. His wife was on the sofa naked from the waist down, legs splayed wide across and down the sofa, masturbating!



"Mmm! What's my lovely wife up to?" he asked.



Before Arnold could take another step, I stepped up behind him and smashed both fists into the back of his head. He crumpled to the floor. Worrying about Sharon for a second, I looked up at only to see her still busy fingering herself.



I tied Arnold up to a chair with some twine I found in the kitchen and stuffed a rag into his mouth. By the time he came to, my cock was already lodged deep inside his wife's mouth while she kneeling on the floor and fingering herself. She was looking up at me with wild abandon, not oblivious of her husband but not caring either.



Some of the pheromone that I produced had run down my abdomen and onto my cock and Sharon was now busilly licking it up.



Gently positioning Sharon back on the sofa, I left her to play with herself while I walked to her husband. Arnold strained to look at me as I walked behind him. With one precise movement, I rapped at the back of his head with my hand and he lost consciousness again.



Now, most vampires are portrayed to be evil in fiction, but that's not entirely accurate, either. At least I don't think I'm evil. It's just my nature to feed. Her husband didn't have to see what would happen next.



With the hunger now at its frantic peak, I moved to Sharon who was sitting with legs spread on the couch. I knelt in front of her. Sensing what I was about to do, she raised both her legs and propped her feet against the edge of the sofa. She stopped fingering herself and grabbed the back of my head.



Two razor-sharp fangs which before now were retracted and hidden, slowly emerged from the cavity between my lips and two upper canines. I took a gentle lick of her distended clit which drove her wilder with pleasure. I opened my mouth and took her entire clitoris in and sucked it like I had done her nipples earlier. Not wasting any more time, I "bit" her in the soft, fleshy part of her crotch and injected venom into her.



What happened next was so familiar, it had become rote.



The neural toxin was an alkaloid very much like morphine. The toxin blunted the pain of my canines digging deep into her flesh, puncturing her right external iliac vein. As I started to feed, the toxins flowed into her body making her body more sensitive to the pleasure of my tongue still licking her and three of my fingers inserted into her pussy and rubbing at her upper walls. Her heart started beating rapidly from both the excitement of what I was doing to her and the effects of the toxin. Her body were starting to get weak yet her oxygen-starved brain was experiencing peaks of pleasure it had never before encountered. Through my mouth's contact with her, I could feel her heart beat slower. Her hands on the back of my head weakened and finally went limp at her side. A few more seconds and I was done feeding.



As I moved away from her still form, I approached her still unconscious husband. Pulling back his neck, I bit deep into his jugular and sucked. I was already sated by then, but I decided to take a taste anyway. I didn't want to be rude.



Moving to the kitchen, I opened the valve of the tank of LPG and switched on one of the gas burners. It wasn't one of those automatics with pilot lamps so the gas didn't light up. Instead, it diffused into the air. I grabbed a box of matches on the way out, and with it lit a corner of the sofa. I looked back one more time at my work then let myself out the door.



By the time I reached my car parked a few blocks away, several pieces of furniture and upholstery had already caught fire. As I drove by, I could see the whole house engulfed in flame. Fortunately, firetrucks take a long time to reach any place in this part of the world.



I drove away already thinking about what I'd be watching on the television that night.

This is the sad story of love; a story which will be repeated for as long as time's crystalline ball exists, until this crystal ball collides with a planet or star from another time or age and breaks. Or perhaps time will eventually swell up with these recurring tragic stories and explode, filling up its vast expanse. And when time's vessel runs over with affection, is filled with an overflow of repressed feelings and cries of loneliness, its crystalline wall will crack... but each love story will surely survive in the scattered shards of this crystal ball, thereby refreshing time for awhile. Perhaps a day will come when eternity and all created and uncreated things will become nothing but the crystalline particles of time, containing the seed of love - the sad story of love. What a time that will be for lovers sleeping in the bubble of time, an age of stories whose endings are not so very predictable.





The woman is known to many people, so telling a story or mentioning her name will not change anything. She was the woman who would write her life in her stories. And the man whose existence or lack of existence is the same because nobody knows him. How did they meet each other... that is not important either. When a story is being formed, it will find its way: finding a job, reading a story or publishing it. It doesn't make any difference...



She was a simple woman. Her mind was compatible with her tongue and her heart. Her words exactly reflected her thoughts and her feelings. When it came to loving someone, she did not believe in time. She was always in love, not like those who are in love one moment and out of it the next ... Thus, when she saw the man for the first time, she said, "You are handsome. Let's be friends... I feel very lonely."



The man, unkempt and unshaven, was sitting across the table. With a little smile on his face, he was staring at the woman. The way the woman was acting and behaving had convinced the man that she was nothing but a child and he could make a novelist of her.



The man had read the woman's stories and was pretending that he was interested in her works. He was talking to her about the things that he was expected to say without mentioning a word about love. The woman had realized that she could make the man her own if she wrote good stories.



Days passed. The man had managed to keep that little smile on his face -- the smile that could leave everything suspended in the air. The woman had remained the same as she always was. She would walk in the room, turn the books and the library upside down, put all the papers on the desk, take them away and put them back on the desk again...



The woman was restless in every step that she took and every word that she uttered. One day after she had made a big mess, she sat face to face with the man and said, "Give me your hand and let me tell you your fortune." The man said, "Leave it for the time when you've become a writer." The woman said, "But I need your hand to touch me on the head." "Why?" the man asked, smiling.



The woman answered, "I would like you to touch my head gently with your hand."



The man laughed and said, "You're crazy." He did not give her his hand.



I am writing this story very quickly because I am afraid that somebody may come and sit on that chair next to the window, stare at me and ask, "How far along are you?" I am writing this story without letting anybody see it. And I would not like anyone to see it before I reach the end of it. I do not even name the locations in the story because mentioning the names of places, cities and buildings not only takes time, which I do not have at all, but also resolves no issues. It is enough to know that all these events are taking place within the crystal ball of time.



And time, for a woman like her -- a woman who was looking for someone to love her-- was just time. She could see no difference between seconds and years. Everywhere she was, she would try to squeeze the essence of time in order to reach a moment when she could see nobody but that 'someone' as a man and herself as a woman.



Thus, she began working. She seemed to seek the help of her own existence to give life to her words. It seemed that the words were becoming detached from every particle of her body and soul. She kept writing; one story after another, every story a romantic one. And there was the man who would read the stories and shake his head as a sign of satisfaction with his own task.



Sometimes the woman would read the story which she had just completed to the man. Then, she would say, "I'm tired. Let's go for a walk."



The man would nod, smiling and the woman would realize that the time when she could be seen with the man in public had not yet come. The woman could understand that there was a distance between her and the man; she would doubt her work and would go back to reading and writing.



Time was passing and the books authored by the woman were being published one after another. The man was spending all of his time reading her books and every day he was paying more and more attention to her or, to tell the truth, to the female character of her stories. The man would go to her room and sit by her and she would talk about everything that she could think of. For a long time, she had made no sense when she was talking, and everyday her speech was becoming more and more unclear -- so unclear that the man could not tell the difference between her and the female character of her stories. The woman kept repeating, "Do you love me?" And the man would always laugh and ask, "How much of the story have you written?"



And the woman would suddenly realize what the man expected of her; she would get hold of herself and show the callus caused by the pen on her finger. And the man would say, "That's hard work..." And the woman would keep on working.



How long did it take until changes gradually appeared in the woman's body and soul? The woman, who was always focusing her attention on the door to see the man coming in to read her stories, was now afraid lest someone should come and bend over the pages filled with her stories.



Time was never important in the woman's life. If a seed, a seed of love, was sown, nothing could uproot it, but the man could see little by little that the woman was not showing any interest. If he called her, she would turn her head towards him very slowly as though lost in what she was writing. The woman's look no longer had the same loving radiance, the same childlike enthusiasm. On the contrary, the female character of her story had sparkling eyes and an amorous look and was acting with more and more childlike enthusiasm.



And the man would read the stories everyday before and after they were published. The more he read them, the better he could understand the woman -- the woman who could feel her own skin and blood in her stories.



The man would play music for the woman to encourage her to write more and to make her go on creating a romantic atmosphere in her stories. And in order to compensate for the lethargic movement of her head and neck, he would make fruit juices for her and attend to her food. But the woman was not paying any attention to the man's affections; she was just writing. And one day when the man asked her, "Are you tired? Let's go for a walk," she replied in a weak voice with a fixed and unclear look on her face, "I can't. I'm busy." She didn't go out with him.



She would not pay attention to the critique of her stories in literary journals either; the journals were competing with each other to write about her. She would not even know how many copies of her books were being published. She would not react to the man's enthusiasm either -- the man who would stand before her with a newspaper in his hand. The woman's movements were becoming slower and slower everyday.



And one day when the man woke up, he laughed alone. He had never laughed like this before, especially when he was by himself. He had a strange feeling; he could remember the woman's sense of humor, her childlike actions and behavior and the question which she used to ask repeatedly: "Are you in love with me?"



The man was singing by himself and being dragged towards the woman. He finally reached a flower shop, bought a bouquet of flowers and went to see the woman. The woman was busy writing as usual. She seemed to be writing the last sentence of a story. It was only her hand that was moving; her body, like a statue made of stone, was far away from everything, even time. Her whole body seemed to have turned to a single hand -- a hand that was writing hastily. The man put the flowers that he had brought her in the vase and placed the vase before her. She did not look at it. She was gazing at what she was writing so intensely that she did not even bat an eyelid. She seemed to have reached the last sentence; the man saw her putting a period at the end of the last sentence. Her hand had remained motionless on the page. The man slowly pulled the papers from under her hand. He read the title of the story: 'The Sad Story of Love' and laughed. He tapped the woman on the shoulder, looked at her face and suddenly grew still. She was no longer 'the woman'; she had turned to a fossil -- a fossil of words. To be sure, the man touched her on the shoulder and , all of a sudden, she broke down into small pieces and thousands of words were scattered all over. And the man saw these, among thousands of words: "You're very handsome... Let's become friends... I'm very lonely!"

so far this week I've managed to convert a few of my fellow friends to the darkside, ever since then they have been wanting my assistance for hunting but it seems that I can;t do it anymore its just not that amusing anymore to me, I think that my heart is breaking because it has been torn and stomped on by so many of my fledglings :-( it makes me sad to know that people just want to get the dark gift and them trample their maker. "THAT IS COMPLETELY WRONG!!!" they shouldn't do that. "sighs" I don't even know why I still convert people anymore?