Starve (Phorzhicoa Story) #30days #30days2018 by Cherie Ann Turpin

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Last time I saw him he stared at me without blinking for 20 minutes straight.  I sat in a low leather chair sipping on an extra dirty martini pretending to not notice him as I read my phone messages.

Starved.

I’ve seen that before.  The last stage before converting to us, the Phorzhicoa.  He’s so far gone he wouldn’t have known the difference between the food and the feeders.  To most humans he is, in urban vernacular terms, “thirsty,” in need of something other than the usual attention given to men and women who are moderately attractive.

You’ve encountered the type before, the kind who were surrounded by sycophants and fans in their younger days, the popular set of folk who were sharply dressed, well-spoken, and of course never missing out on receiving some really delicious sexual heat from lovers and bedwarmers.  But eventually that sort of heat gets cold, and the thirst grows sharper with age.  The young, nubile, strong bodies of hopeful fans are replaced by earnest, desperate, and somewhat shrill voices of men and women who hope to taste a bit of an aging star who begins to realize with more than a bit of panic that she or he is no longer being fed and maintained but in fact is being sucked dry.

Starved.

The makeup is flawless, the haircut is perfect, but the soul is in great need.  The hollowed out eyes of one who is ravenous enough to not know that he is staring at a version of himself is unmistakable and indeed, quite irresistible.  Truth is I’ve kept myself off the radar of the Queen by refusing to feed for some years now, and it has kept me safe from some of the more aggressive types who look to compel us solitaries into joining families to hunt. And yes, he is desirable, but I do not give chase.  I prefer to be chased because the taste of his astonishment is so much more satisfying.  It’s a moment of mutual recognition, that we are more alike than different, that I am not prey but a sister hunter like him.  But he is still in pre-conversion, not quite Phorzhicoa yet.  He may give chase, but I saw him long before he even realized he saw me as a meal to consume.

This fledgling sitting across from me has been semi-stalking me for some months without speaking or even admitting to himself that he hungers, that his body and soul feels the crush and call of the Phorzhicoan way.  The sex itself is beyond words, but the energy that floods you is like a tidal wave of ecstasy that floods every cell of your body for what seems to be an eternity.  Time ceases as you are filled once again.  To be mutually fed by your own is to die and live again in a state of utter joy and relief.

But I don’t chase fledglings, especially not in my own starved state. I feel no motivation to move, much less speak.

Instead, I watch and wait for him to turn.

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Blood Coffee #30days #ww470

My cell phone alarm wakes me up at sunset, my morning call to stretch my legs and step out of my walk in closet where I sleep post-conversion to vampire.  And no, I don’t sleep in a coffin–I hate tight spaces as it is, much less a box fit for a dead body. I’m vampire, so that makes me alive and itchy near the sun, not dead. When I get my next    to the next paycheck I will spend a few dollars on some tinted windows for my bedroom and bathroom so I can start sleeping in my bed again instead of that sleeping bag in my closet.  For now, I endure the closet and try not to go into panic mode.

My first meal of the night isn’t really that different from most people who need a pickup before work: hot coffee. My stomach takes most liquids, including liquor, but since conversion to vampire I prefer beans soaked and roasted in blood, as well as a blend of Type A+ after pouring the hot brew into my favorite cup.  By the time I’ve finished my coffee, I’ve read my work emails, watched evening rush hour news, and texted my boss.

Not much difference from anyone else, save for the faint impression of blood left on the table that never seems to disappear even after scrubbing the surface. Might need to buy another table before inviting humans over for brunch.

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“Rehab” #27 by Cherie Ann Turpin (30 Stories in 30 Days) #30Days

“Rehab” #27

by Cherie Ann Turpin

(30 Stories in 30 Days)

#30Days
junk
So, I’m on a plane headed to Santa Fe, New Mexico.  Mind you, I’m in my traveler’s coffin, the one with the tacky sky-blue lining and extra pillow to help me sleep (I have neck and back issues).  I don’t want to go, but my vampire posse staged an intervention and threatened to kick me out of the group house and report me to my maker, something I fear more than being homeless in a city known to be hostile to derelict vamps.

My drug of choice is heroin, or more accurately, heroin addicts’ blood.  The first time I got high I was at a party and I ended up feeding on this frat boy who I thought was drunk.  I didn’t realize he’d snorted some heroin/oxy party powder in the kitchen earlier.  I almost puked the blood out the first time, but after a few minutes I felt like I was floating into space.  He didn’t even feel me biting him again, but I was careful not to drain him.  I wanted to keep my drug cow healthy enough to keep me high.

It worked for about two months.  He’d score the drugs, and I’d pay him to let me feed on him after he snorted or injected himself.  Then, after a two month run, the frat boy dropped dead from an overdose.  According to one of his frat mates at the frat house where they found him, he thought he could do more of the drug and not get sick because he believed I was sucking away his addiction.  Maybe I was, but if I did, I ended up with an itch that burned through my core stronger than my urge to drink blood all by itself.  It set my hunger on thermonuclear, and made me a danger to not just humans, but other vampires who smelled like they recently fed on addicts.
opium
When my friends found me I was staying at a motel with a recently deceased prostitute who, like my frat boy supplier, OD’ed after spending two weeks with me on a heroin binge.  He sat on the toilet with a glassy-eyed stare, the needle still stuck in his arm.  I’d already fed on him, but I guess he wanted to top off his waning high to augment what my feeding had done to him.  He looked disappointed, a corpse not happy to be a corpse.  The vamps quietly wrapped him in sheets and dumped him into the river.

Clearly, I am not the only one dealing with this issue:  human junkies have been showing up in ER with gaping bite wounds and severe loss of blood by the dozens over the last six months.  The human authorities still don’t know we exist, but it’s only a matter of time before that changes.  If that happens, the Vampire Council will put me down like a rabid dog for sure. That’s why right now I am packed away in the baggage area, waiting for the plane to land so I can be transported to the vampire rehab facility just outside of Santa Fe.

I hear detox feels like you’re being exposed to the sun.  So not looking forward to that.

No bloody sunscreen.

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“Quitting Smoking” #11 by Cherie Ann Turpin (30 Stories in 30 Days) #30days

“Quitting Smoking” #11

by Cherie Ann Turpin

(30 Stories in 30 Days)

2012-07-29 20.24.50
#30days

 

The first thing I noticed the night after I turned vampire was that I no longer felt a need to light up a cigarette.  That was stranger than having to sleep in my walk-in closet to keep out the sunlight.  Contrary to the myth, the sun rays don’t kill vampires, but it makes us weak, sleepy, and more than a bit itchy.  I work as an online writing instructor for a virtual university, so it’s not like I have to worry about missing work time.

I sat up, walked into the bathroom, and looked into the mirror, expecting to see nothing.  Instead, I saw my twisted hair in somewhat of a mess.  My eyes were bloodshot, and I looked somewhat gray in skin tone.  I opened my mouth and saw….nothing but teeth and a tongue.  Okay.  A couple of other myths destroyed there.  I jumped into the shower and washed quickly.  I found some jeans, a tee-shirt, and a pleather jacket, along with my usual lace-up boots.

I thought it odd to not feel a need to smoke.  I grabbed the gray pack of American Spirits and stuck a cigarette at the corner of my mouth.  I lit it and slowly pulled smoke into my lungs.  And held it.  After about ten minutes I blew a cloud of smoke into the dark room. Well, it seemed I discovered two things: 1) I no longer felt a buzz or tasted the cigarette and 2) I no longer needed to breathe.

Instead, I felt a craving for something else, something I could not satisfy from my kitchen or even from delivery.  Suddenly, I felt a hunger so painful it seemed to turn my insides into liquid metal.  Falling to the carpet, my body began to shudder and twist.  I felt my teeth sharpen and push out from my gums, as a strange, beastly growl emerged from my throat.  Cold hands suddenly grabbed me and calmed me, while a warm, coppery liquid filled my mouth and throat.  I swallowed greedily, wondering if the hunger was always this painful.

“For young ones, yes, but not for long,” spoke my rescuer, reading my thoughts.  He pulled me up as he stood, a tall, balding man with dark, piercing eyes and full lips.  His fangs flashed as he smiled at me, warmly.  “I don’t abandon my children, and you have much to learn before I send you on your way.  I will teach you how to live among humans without drawing attention to your true nature.”  He gestured to my laptop.  “You already know how to support yourself without stealing or killing.  You won’t have too many issues living among them in this city.”  He walked to the door and held out his arm for me to take.

“Let’s take a walk.  I feel like eating out for a change.”

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Cheating Hearts (Story #2 – 30 Stories in 30 Days)

Cheating Hearts

By Cherie Ann Turpin

“Uhm, hon, why do I smell blood in the back seat of my car?”

“Huh?”

“Uhm, don’ t ‘huh’ me like you don’t know.  Wake up.  Why do I smell blood all over the back of my car?”

“Who is she? I know it was a woman, and I know the difference between male and female hormones when I smell it, so don’t try to play that over on me. She smells young, like less than 50 years young.  Who is she?” Precious-Hearts-Romances-My-Cheating-Heart

“S-s-s-she’s Rob’s girl, Caroline.  They were making out in the back.  He must have nipped her in the neck.”

“Rob??? Since when did he slow down?”

“She’s a prodigy he turned a few years back–she just got back from Atlanta.”

“Really.”

“Yes.  really.”

“And you just, well, sat in the front and watched them kiss, right? They did more than just kiss, David.”

“I was hunting, dear.  I didn’t wait around to see if they were buck-naked.  Sorry about the smell–I’ll go to the all-night car wash and get the interior cleaned.”

“You must think I was turned yesterday.  You are lying.”

“Stop it.”

“Stop what, David? Stop trusting you? Stop not trusting you? Stop trying to understand why you keep playing me like a tool? Stop wondering why you think you can sleep in that coffin I paid for and lie to my face?  Stop wondering why I don’t turn you to dust myself and just start over with a new consort?”

“What’s with the silver knife, Carla?  I didn’t cheat on you.  I told you, it’s Rob’s woman, not mine.  We were cruising around looking for dinner.  They got high on some raver who was on E, then they got horny.  That’s it.  Nothing happened.”

“What do you mean nothing happened? You let Rob fuck some ratchety bitch in MY car? Sure you didn’t join in? Why didn’t you get high?”

“I didn’t get high because I didn’t join in the feeding.  I saw a guy creeping around the woods–”

“You saw a guy in the woods. And what did he look like? Was he high, drunk?”

“He won’t be missed. I think he was looking to rob somebody.  He had a gun.”

“What kind of gun?”

“A stun-gun.”

“Who uses a stun-gun to rob people?”

“People who don’t like bullets, I guess. He tried to use it on me.  You should have seen his face, Carla–”

“Look, I’m not playing with you.  It’s almost time for me to get to my job, and the bar won’t open by itself.  And I don’t smell Rob ANYWHERE on the leather or carpet in the backseat–or the front, for that matter.  So, unless you want to see me use this knife on that limp, undead lump of flesh you call a dick, I suggest you come clean NOW, and just tell me. WHO THE FUCK IS SHE, DAVID?”

“My wife.”

“What you mean your wife?  I’m your wife!”

“My dead wife, as in Sharon.”

“She’s not dead.”

“Obviously.”

“Who turned her?  When did this happen? And how?”

“You did.”

WHAT?”

“You aren’t as old as you claim to be, are you Carla? Youngsters do tend to make those kind of mistakes.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You turned us both that night, you conniving little minx.  She didn’t die.”

“Why are you smiling like that, David?”

“Like what?”

“Like you are right now? It wasn’t like that.”

“Who’s the liar now?”

“What does she want?”

“She already has what she wants, Carla.  You’re just now noticing it because you’ve been too busy fucking and sucking Hector the Bouncer to care about where I plop my sexy ass.  What you should be asking right now is what do I want, as in how does sweet little killer Carla find a way to make it through the next twenty-four hours without Sharon the wronged wife removing her pretty head from her shoulders?”

“What makes you think I can’t take her down myself?”

“You’d kill your own prodigy?”

“Sounds as though I have no choice but to do just that.”

“You have a knife pointed at my heart.  You have many choices.  Make a move.”

“I don’t want to kill you.”

“But you want to kill her.”

“I want to live.  I want to know how Sharon rose from the ground without me sensing it.  I want to go to work before I lose my job.  Most of all, I want you to still be here when I return.”

“Go to work.  I’ll be here in the morning.”

“Promise?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?  She hasn’t challenged you.  Yet. Go on, you’re almost late.  We’ll talk about it, no weapons, okay?”

“Bite me.  Hard.”

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Red Star, White Sun (7) « Hub City Blues by Thaddeus Howze @ebonstorm

Red Star, White Sun (7) « Hub City Blues.

I am addicted to this series, so I am sharing this particular episode with the hope you will also crave yet another episode.  Show Thaddeus some love and subscribe to his short story blog Hubcity Blues!