Vampire’s Daughter – Chapter 4 WIP, part 2

Vampire's Daughter

Vampire’s Daughter

Now that taste for humanity beckons; it’s the blood that calls me.

I have no fear in the Pine Barrens. There are no hunters of my kind. Just me and the occasional unwary human. I take them if I feel safe in the knowledge that they’ll not be missed before I make my way to another forest.

I look toward the moon to make sure I’ve enough time to follow the blood trail. The moon is low in the sky — still time enough for me to follow my interests for one evening.

Only a predator made for the hunt could have found these drops of blood. One must have a taste for blood to pick just three drops from the myriad of delicious sensations aromas that hung in the air.

A werewolf, its nose to the ground, already tracking prey, snuffling along like the animal it is might have found those drops. But few other were-animals would even have bothered to slow down at such a tiny spoor. Wolverines, single-minded creatures, would have snuffled and moved on. Rats, certainly, would investigate. But most weres are too lazy to pick up and follow such a small trail.

Weres don’t have the patience to really track a victim. Too easily distracted by the abundance of more accessible prey, they screech, whirling in different directions until they stumble across a creature too slow and stupid to outrun them. It doesn’t matter whether a were is in the middle of the forest or a city. A were can run all day and into the following night: It doesn’t slow down long enough to think about what it’s doing. Just run and run until it catches something.

A vampire, understands understands tracking — the single-minded pursuit of one animal, following it from moment to moment, until its heart leaps in syncopation against its rage and fright. I know the sweet taste of stark, rabid fear, adrenaline shouting along, coursing through the brain.

Urging. Demanding. Run — RUN!

To me, finding and tracking is the appetizer before the meal, those delicious moments in which I can I lose myself.

Write with your Feet

Home has gotten too comfortable.

I’ve been blocked for the last couple of months, producing only a few words here and there. Most of the time, when I get home from a long day at work, I spend my evenings on my favorite couch with my feet propped up, staring blankly at a TV.

I don’t even have cable.

But I do have the devil – Hulu, Netflix, Crackle, Amazon Prime, Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, Instagram and Tumblr. These social media and streaming TV channels merge together to create a beast that stands twixt me and the written word.

And my laptop’s no help, as it has the vile social media, through which I twiddle away countelss hours.

Recently, however, I learned to write with my feet.

I got a Chromebook at the local electronics store. That’s a stripped down version of a computer. It’s better than a netbook, yet not quite as fully functional as my laptop. A Chromebook is perfect for someone who has a lot of writing to do, a Google account, and a bit of time on her hands.

Last week, while sitting mindless in front of the tube, I made up my mind to write. I’d tried writing on my spot on the couch. That’s my comfort zone. But soon, I clicked on the TV and started surfing my Facebook and Twitter accounts. Clearly I wasn’t getting anything done.

The Chromebook is light. It’s got a hefty 6-hour battery. The Samsung keyboard is small but serviceable. There are a few odd things (like no CAPS LOCK key), but nothing I can’t work around.

So I grabbed the Chromebook and headed to my local Books a Million to join the hipsters, hippies and students that call the Joe Muggs coffee area home. And what a difference it made! I was there for only a couple of hours, but I managed to write nearly a thousand words in my next work.

I was amazed.

I thought about it for a few days, and I realized what had happened. All the writing advice I had began with “find a comfortable/suitable/conducive location.” That’s what I did. And yet all too soon, home became too comfortable: a kitchen with free beverages; a TV for distraction; high speed Internet with all my stuff on the hard drive.

There were too many distractions in my place of comfort.

So I wrote with my feet: I walked out the door and went someplace just a little less comfortable. I also worked on a computer that’s less of a beast than my home computer.

I got something done. Now I head out to BAM a few times a week, and it’s all good.

If you’re finding yourself blocked, try writing with your feet.

Get off your ass, and go someplace.

Vampire’s Daughter – Chapter 4 WIP

Vampire's Daughter

Vampire’s Daughter

It’s rare to find human blood this deep in the Pine Barrens. Animal blood is common enough in this primeval forest. Creatures often tear one another apart, feasting on still twitching remains. It’s a brutal and dangerous life for the unwary, and so a little scattered in the rotting bed of pine needles isn’t unusual. If you move faster than the scavengers, you’re likely to stumble across a blood trail sooner or later.

But much of this forest and murky swamps are virginal — inaccessible to any but beasts and insects with the will to kill and survive. Yet, splattered there plain to anyone with keen sense are a few drops of humanity on ragged leaves and pine needles. Three tiny splashes, nearly lost in brambles and the browns and blacks of the Pine Barrens’ floor. Even in the dark, I see the edges of each bloom of blood and how those drops have spread like a flower.

I love the scent, and I take a long, slow breath. I do not need human blood to survive. I got over that myth years ago when I learned that any animal will provide me with what I need. Two legs. Four legs. It makes no difference. It is the blood – so long as it is red and rich – that sustains me. I have lived in forests for most of my new life as a vampire, taking the lives of creatures and living safely in solitude.

It is only the taste of the blood that differs, like the difference between a hamburger and steak. Both give me what I need, though one is admittedly more desirable. Yet, I am not above taking the solitary hunter in the forest. Careful in my bloodlust not to arouse suspicion, I take those humans who poach what would be my meal.

Now that taste for humanity beckons; it’s the blood that calls me.