Recently, the Gautier Public Library hosted a Vampire Writing Contest for adults. The entries were astounding and wonderful! Special thanks to all who participated. Cassandra Lawson won second place with Nouvelle Vie and Vel Merrithey placed third in the contest with Transition. All winning entries are displayed in the Gautier Public Library.
We had an excellent time reading the stories, and are excited to share our first place winner, A Change of Heart, by Patrizia Dwyer.
The dream began with the sound of wings. A slow steady beat that descended into the forest surrounding me. I had stopped to listen, but as silence pressed upon my ears, I started forward again with an ill feeling in my gut. Now there was only the crunch of dying leaves underneath me. The moon lay low, providing just enough light to walk by. The trail that had first been a comfort added paranoia at every step.
Moments passed and my pace slowed as the consistent silence proved no danger. I could see the end of the path ahead; it opened onto a street adjacent to the park. The flash of a speeding car caught my eye. It was good to know I was not the only one about at this hour. As I closed in on the beacon of human contact, I heard the brush about me protest, stopping me in my tracks. A fearful rush of adrenaline begged me forward, but my feet would not cooperate.
The more I tried to move, the stiffer my muscles became. My eyes grew wide in fear. But fear was not what was planting me here. The lights ahead blacked out the man that emerged from the trees. His silhouette advanced smoothly, as though he were gliding. He was wearing a simple outfit; jeans tucked into boots; loose button down shirt. As he drew near, I could make out his face. It was smiling so softly that the terror in my heart almost abandoned me, but as I looked up into his eyes, it returned with more force than before. They were black on black, as though he had only one large pupil.
He stopped in front of me and stared. I still lacked control of this fleshy statue, my nerves had turned to stone. I could breathe and move my mouth, I could speak, but I did not know what to say. He began walking around me looking me up and down as if he were examining a race horse. He stopped at my side just as I cracked and whispered, "What do you want?"
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his smile widen. "I want lots of things, just like you want lots of things. Truths and revenge and a quiet place to rest. I want friends that I have lost and time that I have wasted. But, under the circumstances, I will assume that you want to know what I want with you."
He brushed the hair from my eyes; his touch somehow comforted me, though my rational mind was aware of the threat. "From you, I want either one or two things. The first is to feed, the second a companion. Now the question is, do you want to live or don't you? Do you want to see tomorrow or would you rather die without guilt?"
I breathed in deeply and thought on my reply. My heart was struggling to keep an even pace.
"I don't want to give you either."
"Well, in that case, you will supply me with both," he chuckled.
His icy lips made contact with my neck. A piercing pain was instantly replaced by a fleeting feeling of sedation. I felt faint and my eyes fluttered shut.
"You will give me what I want."
My eyes are open. A rush, an empty realization gives way. The wind chime above my bed spins delicately. The dream fades before I can grasp it. Sunlight is teasing the edge of my curtains. The air in here is so stuffy I can barely stand it. I sit up and take a deep breath, but grimace at the scent of forgotten food. I cross the room; the brilliant red carpet velvet beneath my feet. I run a brush through my hair while I watch myself in a full-length mirror on the open closet door.
"Good hair day," I compliment myself.
The clothes I fell asleep in last night are not good enough for a Saturday. As my hand pulls back the bedroom door, the circulating air stings my nose. I enter the bathroom on my right to look for some Benadryl, but failed to find it. As I descend the stairs, I am preoccupied by the thick air. My mother is humming in the kitchen; she she has pancakes stacked and ready on the table in the dining room. My stomach turns at the idea of eating breakfast. I stop a moment to look at the family portrait on the dining room wall. Mom looks so happy with a child on each side, her smile is so bright. That had been a good day, and it shows on my face as well. Then, there is my brother, grinning through a confusing transition of child to teen. I look down at my hands. "I feel strange," I whisper as they break out in a cold sweat.
"What was that, Joan?" my mother inquires from the kitchen, probably cleaning something as usual.
"Nothing," I look up and approach the kitchen. " I just . . ."
As I step into the doorway, my world stops. I am . . . I . . . The air is so hot. I sweat. I want to crawl out of my skin. She smiles at me; a warm, sweet smile. She looks so nice and warm. her translucent skin lets her veins paint her, in blue and purple, it wants to breathe, turn red. So warm. I hate her for it. I want to make her cold. The air lays heavy on my skin. My eyes focus intensely. Did I forget to breathe? Inhale. The smell, it's her, the heavy smell of life.
My muscles tense, only half a moment has passed. She's still in the act of smiling. My skin cries through the heat. She needs to stop. Make her stop! My legs bend, jump; I hurl myself forward. I cannot move fast enough to satisfy, anger intensifies. Her smile falters, just barely, as the impact sends us down.
Tumble. I'm wrapped in heat. I wrap back, my arms surround, they clench, they bind, break ribs. A shriek in my ear enrages me. I'm closer than before, hotter than before.Turn it off, let me breathe, let it breathe. I tighten my grip, exerting pressure, exerting heat. Crush. Two more ribs give. Another scream rings in my head. The smell of skin fills me. I chuckle softly. Does she not know her weakness spurs my urge to bring an end to this madness?
I hate everything about her. I hold on, she shudders, tries to breathe. My cheek is pressed against her collarbone. Hear her heart underneath; beat faster and faster still. It pleads for oxygen. I will not relinquish control until it pleads no more, until that vile smell, that running blood, that maddeningly warm skin ceases to be.
I squeeze once more. Listen to that satisfying sound of a rib cage defeated. Feel hot tears on my hair. Not my tears; all I feel is hate, frustration, want. Open up, feel the heat on my lips, steal it, take it all away. Breathe in. Take in the heat, make it stop. I'm sweating, heat and hunger, sweating so much it's purgery. Skin beneath me cooling off, I'm heating up. Can't stand it anymore; let me out! End it. End her. Pull out the heat. Purge the life.
My jaw releases, eyes look up. My arms pull away from the fatal embrace, hang loosely by my side. I sit and sweat, a cold dead woman beneath me. My vision picks up things it never has before; all the dust shimmering in the air, the oddest hue of olive on the wall, the perfect white surfaces of the kitchen splattered in scarlet art. I slump down next to the breathless, heatless, heap of skin. I lay in a bloody puddle and shiver and sweat and shake. The puddle beneath me grows. After a minute or so, I begin to cool off. The heat has gone, the blood expelled from my skin. Empty and pale, my hands feels so strange. I feel so so strange; like nothing, but a shell of what I once was.
I want to cry. I know I shouldn't. I can't, I won't. Who was she to me? Nothing, but a hateful thing; nonetheless, I do not wish to leave her side right now. I cannot stay. I get up, feel so light, and head into the dining room, where the family portrait once again steals my attention. It makes me think; that grin, that boy, sleeping upstairs.
I shuffle into the front room. The stairs are on my left, the front door on my right. I am torn between the two. I ache to go upstairs; the thought makes me wildly gleeful. But, on some other level, I want to exit and leave it at that. That subtle, hidden feeling, though is not enough to stop my impulse. Just as I begin to move towards the stairs, the front door opens. A man comes forward. He smiles as he advances, a smile that I recognize as comforting. I know this man. His jeans are tucked into his boots.
He stops directly in front of me and looks in my eyes. A hand on my cheek, "Don't fret," he says. "You have realized yourself. Do you wish to leave?"
"Yes," I plead through the urge to find my brother. "Take me away from here."
"Very well."
He takes my hand in his and leads me outside; the open door swings in the breeze.
We had an excellent time reading the stories, and are excited to share our first place winner, A Change of Heart, by Patrizia Dwyer.
The dream began with the sound of wings. A slow steady beat that descended into the forest surrounding me. I had stopped to listen, but as silence pressed upon my ears, I started forward again with an ill feeling in my gut. Now there was only the crunch of dying leaves underneath me. The moon lay low, providing just enough light to walk by. The trail that had first been a comfort added paranoia at every step.
Moments passed and my pace slowed as the consistent silence proved no danger. I could see the end of the path ahead; it opened onto a street adjacent to the park. The flash of a speeding car caught my eye. It was good to know I was not the only one about at this hour. As I closed in on the beacon of human contact, I heard the brush about me protest, stopping me in my tracks. A fearful rush of adrenaline begged me forward, but my feet would not cooperate.
The more I tried to move, the stiffer my muscles became. My eyes grew wide in fear. But fear was not what was planting me here. The lights ahead blacked out the man that emerged from the trees. His silhouette advanced smoothly, as though he were gliding. He was wearing a simple outfit; jeans tucked into boots; loose button down shirt. As he drew near, I could make out his face. It was smiling so softly that the terror in my heart almost abandoned me, but as I looked up into his eyes, it returned with more force than before. They were black on black, as though he had only one large pupil.
He stopped in front of me and stared. I still lacked control of this fleshy statue, my nerves had turned to stone. I could breathe and move my mouth, I could speak, but I did not know what to say. He began walking around me looking me up and down as if he were examining a race horse. He stopped at my side just as I cracked and whispered, "What do you want?"
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his smile widen. "I want lots of things, just like you want lots of things. Truths and revenge and a quiet place to rest. I want friends that I have lost and time that I have wasted. But, under the circumstances, I will assume that you want to know what I want with you."
He brushed the hair from my eyes; his touch somehow comforted me, though my rational mind was aware of the threat. "From you, I want either one or two things. The first is to feed, the second a companion. Now the question is, do you want to live or don't you? Do you want to see tomorrow or would you rather die without guilt?"
I breathed in deeply and thought on my reply. My heart was struggling to keep an even pace.
"I don't want to give you either."
"Well, in that case, you will supply me with both," he chuckled.
His icy lips made contact with my neck. A piercing pain was instantly replaced by a fleeting feeling of sedation. I felt faint and my eyes fluttered shut.
"You will give me what I want."
*******************
My eyes are open. A rush, an empty realization gives way. The wind chime above my bed spins delicately. The dream fades before I can grasp it. Sunlight is teasing the edge of my curtains. The air in here is so stuffy I can barely stand it. I sit up and take a deep breath, but grimace at the scent of forgotten food. I cross the room; the brilliant red carpet velvet beneath my feet. I run a brush through my hair while I watch myself in a full-length mirror on the open closet door.
"Good hair day," I compliment myself.
The clothes I fell asleep in last night are not good enough for a Saturday. As my hand pulls back the bedroom door, the circulating air stings my nose. I enter the bathroom on my right to look for some Benadryl, but failed to find it. As I descend the stairs, I am preoccupied by the thick air. My mother is humming in the kitchen; she she has pancakes stacked and ready on the table in the dining room. My stomach turns at the idea of eating breakfast. I stop a moment to look at the family portrait on the dining room wall. Mom looks so happy with a child on each side, her smile is so bright. That had been a good day, and it shows on my face as well. Then, there is my brother, grinning through a confusing transition of child to teen. I look down at my hands. "I feel strange," I whisper as they break out in a cold sweat.
"What was that, Joan?" my mother inquires from the kitchen, probably cleaning something as usual.
"Nothing," I look up and approach the kitchen. " I just . . ."
As I step into the doorway, my world stops. I am . . . I . . . The air is so hot. I sweat. I want to crawl out of my skin. She smiles at me; a warm, sweet smile. She looks so nice and warm. her translucent skin lets her veins paint her, in blue and purple, it wants to breathe, turn red. So warm. I hate her for it. I want to make her cold. The air lays heavy on my skin. My eyes focus intensely. Did I forget to breathe? Inhale. The smell, it's her, the heavy smell of life.
My muscles tense, only half a moment has passed. She's still in the act of smiling. My skin cries through the heat. She needs to stop. Make her stop! My legs bend, jump; I hurl myself forward. I cannot move fast enough to satisfy, anger intensifies. Her smile falters, just barely, as the impact sends us down.
Tumble. I'm wrapped in heat. I wrap back, my arms surround, they clench, they bind, break ribs. A shriek in my ear enrages me. I'm closer than before, hotter than before.Turn it off, let me breathe, let it breathe. I tighten my grip, exerting pressure, exerting heat. Crush. Two more ribs give. Another scream rings in my head. The smell of skin fills me. I chuckle softly. Does she not know her weakness spurs my urge to bring an end to this madness?
I hate everything about her. I hold on, she shudders, tries to breathe. My cheek is pressed against her collarbone. Hear her heart underneath; beat faster and faster still. It pleads for oxygen. I will not relinquish control until it pleads no more, until that vile smell, that running blood, that maddeningly warm skin ceases to be.
I squeeze once more. Listen to that satisfying sound of a rib cage defeated. Feel hot tears on my hair. Not my tears; all I feel is hate, frustration, want. Open up, feel the heat on my lips, steal it, take it all away. Breathe in. Take in the heat, make it stop. I'm sweating, heat and hunger, sweating so much it's purgery. Skin beneath me cooling off, I'm heating up. Can't stand it anymore; let me out! End it. End her. Pull out the heat. Purge the life.
My jaw releases, eyes look up. My arms pull away from the fatal embrace, hang loosely by my side. I sit and sweat, a cold dead woman beneath me. My vision picks up things it never has before; all the dust shimmering in the air, the oddest hue of olive on the wall, the perfect white surfaces of the kitchen splattered in scarlet art. I slump down next to the breathless, heatless, heap of skin. I lay in a bloody puddle and shiver and sweat and shake. The puddle beneath me grows. After a minute or so, I begin to cool off. The heat has gone, the blood expelled from my skin. Empty and pale, my hands feels so strange. I feel so so strange; like nothing, but a shell of what I once was.
I want to cry. I know I shouldn't. I can't, I won't. Who was she to me? Nothing, but a hateful thing; nonetheless, I do not wish to leave her side right now. I cannot stay. I get up, feel so light, and head into the dining room, where the family portrait once again steals my attention. It makes me think; that grin, that boy, sleeping upstairs.
I shuffle into the front room. The stairs are on my left, the front door on my right. I am torn between the two. I ache to go upstairs; the thought makes me wildly gleeful. But, on some other level, I want to exit and leave it at that. That subtle, hidden feeling, though is not enough to stop my impulse. Just as I begin to move towards the stairs, the front door opens. A man comes forward. He smiles as he advances, a smile that I recognize as comforting. I know this man. His jeans are tucked into his boots.
He stops directly in front of me and looks in my eyes. A hand on my cheek, "Don't fret," he says. "You have realized yourself. Do you wish to leave?"
"Yes," I plead through the urge to find my brother. "Take me away from here."
"Very well."
He takes my hand in his and leads me outside; the open door swings in the breeze.
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