Taking shape

For me, writing is about getting it right the first time. I know. There are lots of folks out there who do quite well by spitting out thousands of words over a short period of time, then going back and editing. That’s not for me. I write a few hundred words. Then pour over those words again and again. I hack and whittle, expand and add. This is the second rewrite of the opening of Born Fighting – dedicated to two very dear folks. If you look at the post below this one (or not: I don’t really give a fuck) you’ll see the first draft. This is the second. It’s closer to where I want to be with the work, though there are still rough spots to which I must attend. Weekends are good for that.

———

Born Fighting – Vicious Vampire Erotica

Sage fucking Ravenwood. Sage FUCKING Ravenwood!”

Larry whipped the drivers license across the room and kicked off his stool. The latter skidded across the cabin’s wooden planks, and then tipped to the floor. “FUCK!” He stood as rage shook him. His bandy legs trembled. His eyes were bright and bulging. Spittle sprayed from his mouth as he cursed.

“How the fuck was I supposed to know she’s a fucking mute!” Larry stood shaking and stared at the ceiling, open to the rafters, before he grabbed fistsful of his thinning hair in both hands and shook his head wildly. “Fuck!” He stomped back and forth across the planks, slamming each foot down and executing a sharp spin at either end of the small room.

“Fucking mute. Fucking deaf and fucking mute. Jesus fucking Christ!”

Larry thrashed his head wildly, elbows akimbo. “Goddamnit!” He kicked the stool, and it flew wildly across the room where it smashed against the cabin’s rude walls. “She can’t fucking hear me. She can’t fucking talk! How is she going to appreciate my fucking art?” Larry stomped and shook his head. It was starting again. The insects. The fucking insects. Crawling, swarming his body, from the in-fucking-side! It was like ticks and beetles and fucking-ants marching through his guts scurrying along the inside of his skin, holding little fucking bug-meetings in his brain. In his goddamn brain! He could hear their twitters, feel their antenna stroke the gray curls and whorls of his brain. His fucking artist’s brain!

And somehow, Larry knew it was her. That fucking Indian woman. He didn’t know how Sage Fucking Ravenwood had squirmed into his head. But it he knew it was her. Her and her eyes, her big fucking chocolate eyes. Sage Fucking Ravenwood kept those eyes wide open and staring, as Larry worked his artistry across her skin, her mouth stretched in silent screams. It was just the beginning for her, when he scraped her skin smooth, not that dirty brown, but red and bright, like Chinese porcelain. Those fucking Chinese. He’d had a Chinese girl once. That girl’s voice was high and sweet, and she knew his art. She fucking knew it! That little Asian girl had sung his glory in that birdlike voice, twittering in Cantonese. Until he tasted her tongue – boiled it like a fucking cabbage, with carrots and taters and peas. She had porcelian skin, too, by the time he was done. Stripping it. Scraping it. Loving it. The fat that he scraped from the back of her skin was sweet and needed no spice. The skin itself crisped up like bacon in his old, iron skillet. Her fingers and toes were like popcorn, cracked free at the knuckles and charred over an open flame. But it was the Chinese girl’s hair that Larry loved must about the girl. Black and straight, it hung to her waist, then to her knees, then to her feet, as worked the girl’s body down to a manageable size.

Sage Fucking Ravenwood had long hair, too. A fucking black river of hair, undulating like a water moccasin skating across a cedar swamp. That black hair was smooth in his hands. In his mouth. In his way. In the way of his art! Of his high fucking art! And Larry brushed that luxurious hair again and again, washed it and brushed it till it shined, and then combed it out in great clumps until 49 strands clung to her scalp, weaving like snakes.

Goddamnit, he knew Sage Fucking Ravenwood was in his fucking head, and she had been for the last two days and nights, ever since he snatched her sweet ass off the streets of Pleasantville. An Indian – a native fucking American who shouldn’t have been out on the fucking streets in the middle of the fucking night any-fucking-way!

“Jesus fucking Christ!” He screamed the curse and let go of his own hair long enough to sweep one arm across a table. Tin cans, a plate and a scattering of silverware jangled across the floor, a bright cacophony of metal and glass in the cabin’s single, dark room.

“How can she appreciate my fucking artistry, huh?” The room, but for Larry, was empty and dim. Two windows set deep in the cabin’s walls, were crusty with a build-up of grease and filth. What light filtered in was weak and piss-yellow; it reached tentatively into shadows and dark corners.

I wanted a thousand words

I’ll have to settle for about 370. Damnit. It’s all there in my head. But I want this one to be fucking perfect. There’s folks what need killing. This has to happen correctly.


Born Fighting – Vicious Vampire Erotica

“Sage fucking Ravenwood. Sage FUCKING Ravenwood!”

Larry threw the drivers license across the room and kicked off his stool. The latter skidded on the wooden planks of the cabin, then tipped to the floor. “FUCK!” He stood. Rage shook him. His eyes were bright and bulging.

“How the fuck was I supposed to know she’s a fucking mute!” Larry stared shaking at the open ceiling, grabbed fistsful of his thinning hair and shook his head wildly. “Fuck!” He stomped back and forth across the planks, slamming each foot down and executing a sharp spin at either end of the small room.

“Fucking mute. Fucking deaf and fucking mute. Jesus fucking Christ!”

She was in his head. Goddamnit, he knew Sage Fucking Ravenwood was in his fucking head, and she had been for the last two days and nights, ever since he snatched her sweet ass off the streets of Pleasantville. An Indian – a native fucking American who shouldn’t have been out on the fucking streets in the middle of the fucking night any-fucking-way!

“Goddamnit!” Larry thrashed his head wildly, elbows akimbo. He felt the insects again. Crawling, swarming his body. From the in-fucking-side! It was like ticks, and beetles and fucking-ants marching through his guts scurrying along the inside of his skin, holding little fucking bug-meeting in his brain. In his goddamn brain! He could hear their twitters, feel their antenna stroke the gray curls and whorls of his brain. A fucking artist’s brain!

“Jesus fucking Christ!” He screamed the curse and let go of his hair long enough to sweep one arm across a table. Tin cans, a plate and a scattering of silverware jangled across the floor, a bright cacophony in the cabin’s single, dark room.

“How can she appreciate my fucking artistry, huh?” The room, but for Larry, was empty and dim. Two windows set deep in the cabin’s walls, were crusty with a build-up of grease and filth. What light filtered in was a weak piss-yellow, reaching tentatively into shadows and dark corners. The logs making up the one-room cabin were ancient, and the chinks between them had been stuffed and re-stuffed with a mixture of moss and mud.

Born Fighting – Vicious Vampire Erotica

I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night. Usually, that’s indicative of too much caffeine throughout the day, or a giant smoothie just before bed.

Not this time. The voices are back.

Different writers have different tools: research, plotting, outlining. For me, it’s the voices. Not so much during the day. I tend to be too occupied during the day, and I push the voices aside.

When I was a child, the voices came every night. They told me stories throughout the evening hours. Some were blissful. Others terrified me too much to sleep.

As I grew older, and made writing an occupation, the voices faded. There would be moments, but the familiar terror they brought each evening was spotty.

And so were my stories. I did write a series of poems: I hate you – 10 poems. And one night, Jesus Wept came to me in a series of screeches. I spent the next day writing.

I got some murmurs for Divine Wine. Why Kill Gayle? is straight from my imaginationn – no voices. That’s why it’s YA friendly.

But last night, the voices were back. I’m older now. They don’t terrify. But they keep me awake. And last night, they told me most of a story.

I know now what happens to Indigo Ravenwood. I know that she was born fighting for her life, the umbilical cord wrapped around her neck. I know that the oxygen starvation left her both deaf and mute.

I know that Indigo’s mother was a banshee.

I know what happens to Indigo when she crosses paths with the wrong man.

I know!

The Twisted Twins and Dead Hooker in a Trunk – Perfect Characters

Writing the characters of psychos, killers, and Femdom vampires isn’t as easy as one might think.

You know that old saw: Write what you know.

I admit to being slightly unhinged. (Did I say slightly? I meant completely.)

I don’t think I’ve killed anyone. Threatened a lot of folks. Beat down some punks who thought a chick was an easy target. (NOTE: Motorcycle helmet makes a great weapon.) But I don’t remember actually killing anyone.

And while I’m definitely a Dominant Female (Femdom, for those of you who don’t know the lifestyle), I’m not a vampire.

Write what you know. It just doesn’t hold a lot of meaning to me when I stride out into the supernatural. I mean, fuck, do you think Stephen King is a fucking ghost? And yet, he’s written about dozens of the wispy critters. Do you think the ever-sweet Ania Ahlborn has ever killed anyone? (Hmm. Sweetness is a good cover, so I might have to give this one a maybe.) And yet Seed, coming soon everywhere, threatens all kinds of killing.

The point is (you knew I had to get back to the point) that to really understand a character requires research. Real killers. Made up killers. (The voices in my head.)

I prefer the psychopath. Not necessarily a killer, though my psychopathic vampires do tend to slaughter folks. But they do so without conscious.

And that brings me to my point. Dead Hooker in a Trunk has some of the best psychopathy portrayed in a movie that I’ve seen. I’ve seen movies more gruesome, and flicks with disturbed murderers. But Dead Hooker … I can’t give a lot away. But I’ve got to talk about a single scene, and I’ll do it without giving away the story.

It’s either Jen or Sylvia – I’ve never met them face-to-face, and I can’t tell the Twisted Twins apart – who at one point beats down a trucker who wasn’t paying attention. That single scene is so perfect, so realistic, that in that moment you realize that Jen (or Sylvia) is a true psychopath – absolutely without conscious.

She’s not a murder. Although she does her fair share of killing. She’s not hopelessly disturbed. She’s an out and out psychopath.

Either one of the twins from Dead Hooker could be models for one of my vampires. They’re perfect.

That’s the kind of research I do when I begin a story. I read a lot. I watch a lot. I pay attention when someone does it perfectly.

Divine Wine (excerpt)

This is pulled out of Divine Wine. The vampire’s got her eye on the killer and stalks him in the streets:

As I watched him over the next few weeks, I got to know the little fucker better. His given name was Steve, though he preferred the nom de guerre, “Johnny Slash.” He has a broken front tooth and a jagged scar above his eyebrow. His nose is smashed. He’s gangly and favors loose-fitting t-shirts that hide his scrawny frame. He wears baggy pants and carries a large, serrated hunting knife. He has beady eyes the color of dark chocolate and greasy, lank, lemon-yellow hair that hangs in strands that nearly brush his shoulders.

In a city that’s nearly half black, and whites are outnumbered three to one, the little fucker belongs to a gang of thugs who called themselves the “White Aryans of 18th Street.” Arrogant and puerile little shits, each one strangely violent in his own way. Rape and murder isn’t uncommon to any of them, but the little fucker outshone his entire gang. He enjoys killing, and he prefers his sex partners dead and on the ground.

In the two weeks that I shadowed the boy, he killed and raped three women, as well as murdering a child. All four of them were dark-skinned and pretty. The women had big asses and tits to match. He took the women near the screamo bar and dragged them into the same alley where he had fucked the first corpse. The child was playing after dark in a schoolyard, when he pulled her into a nearby stand of bushes and beat her to death. She was the only one that he didn’t touch after she was dead.

I understood why the ghoul followed him so closely. The little fucker is like a walking morgue, leaving corpses in his wake: a banquet for ghouls. But that kind of murder won’t go unnoticed for long by the police. And even though none of the women were the cute, blond, cheerleader-types, the media slavers over, reporters will come howling if any of them think there’s a serial killer in the city.

He’s perfect. Exactly what I was looking for in the concrete, steel and neon glare that makes up Atlantic City. The little fucker is a brutal and confident killer. Five times I’d seen him kill, and four times I’d seen him rape corpses within screaming distance of large crowds. The boy feels invulnerable, and he is incautious in his murders and the aftermath.

Perfect.