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#1 of 14 Old 06-20-2006, 01:35 AM - Thread Starter
 
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Chandi, 1995

Why he didn’t let me watch I’ll never know. I would’ve reveled in watching Bronwyn burn, cloaked in her wavy hair and flimsy gown. Satisfied more to hear the haunting screams of doom than I was in sensing the deep sorrow of loss as she watched me nurse her newborn child, I secretly smiled, enjoying her anguish. My senses were never as sharp as the child’s but it was impossible not to feel Bronwyn’s weeping sorrow as her ashes scattered themselves to the wind.
I always hated her, Malcolm treated her differently; he loved her, never giving into the temptation of her blood. He didn’t even let the child nurse lest she pierce that smooth, creamy skin. He also kept the other children from feeding from the veins so visible beneath that translucent skin.
He needed me; not only could I weave magic charms, heal the sick and assist in birthing the babies, I could also nurse those children until they turned chubby with good health. Abundant was my milk, it never dried, and tasty was the tangy blood that pooled around their budding, needlelike teeth. My flesh was but practice ground to help awaken the natural hunger that lived inside of their desires. He allowed me to live after I birthed Gunther, it must be that he sensed what a help I could be to him. I did my best to be indispensable. I was so in love with him.
I begged him to allow Gunther to live until at least twenty before he made him a vampire in his own right. My son became a dashing young man before he died into immortality.
I always hated Bronwyn. The image of her lying, great with child, on those pristine, white sheets, hair splayed across the pillow burned an inferno in my mind. I had been glad when one of her twin girls died. He allowed Bronwyn’s precious Leila, the one who lived, to turn into a stunning eighteen year old woman before he made her a vampire. I always suspected that he had greater plans for Gunther and Leila.
I grew older, yet my breasts stayed full, our children remained frozen in their youthful beauty.
Malcolm fathered an army of children, most of whom he made immortal as soon as they came of age; for the girls it was around thirteen, the boys, a bit older. Each of them came close to death as he drained them to the point of mercy. Each child taking to bed for several days until he slit his wrist and allowed the ruby elixir to dribble over their tounges.They were then frozen in a state of perpetual adolescence. Most of their mothers burned above the lake, floating on their own funeral pyre, so drained of blood that they burned quicker than Leila’s mother had. Bronwyn had been full of the precious substance that sustained most of the vampires but Malcolm wouldn’t let them touch her, he almost let her live but reluctantly allowed me to provide him with the potion that would render her body so close to death that she couldn’t move as she burned. It was through tears that he watched her drink the clear, tasteless liquid. He knew what must be done. I helped him to see that.
I begged him to transform me into one of the undead but he refused. Why he didn’t make Bronwyn into a worthy mate for himself I’ll never know, my only guess is that his love for her kept him from causing her the misery he felt every day. Love proved to be his greatest downfall.
Leila looked just like her mother; she stayed close to her father’s side except when she joined the other children, taking turns draining the blood from the women, who were still weary from giving birth. It was often that Malcolm would row back across the lake with yet another woman who had no idea of the fate in store for her, the sleeping snake would lie, until the baby was birthed and the mother was fed on and then burned. The lake was cloudy from the ashes of so many of his victims. I had escaped that grim fate because of my abilities and Bronwyn almost did because of his love for her. Some of the others tried to flee, but there was nowhere to go, this was an island after all.
Malcolm told me that the last word she screamed was “Lilly” the name of the twin that had passed on.
I ached every time I heard Leila whimper in those early days. The front of my gown stayed crusty from dried milk. As I held her, I used to fantasize that I was her mother. Once Bronwyn was gone, I became the moon and stars to baby Leila. Her alert, cobalt eyes would fixate on me intensely each time she wished to nurse. I had the feeling before she was one year old that speech was not far away. I had been there when she uttered her first word, “Lilly”, she said it clearly. We were readying for bed when it came. Malcolm came running as soon as he caught word. I could tell that the other children waited outside of the door as he pivoted towards me.
“Leave us” He lowered himself to his knees, arms encircling his beloved child. I gently closed the door behind me, the latch caught audibly as I tried with great effort to stifle the sobs that stopped short in my throat.
I found myself surrounded by the children I had been wet nurse to; they seemed to clearly make out what was being said. I, however was only mortal, my senses not as developed as they. All I could hear was a faint murmuring.
They all followed as Malcolm brushed past carrying baby Leila, he left a void in his wake.



Leila, 1995

Why she hated my mother so much I’ll never know. As painful as it was to marinate in her hatred, I also loved her; Chandi was my nurse.
I always knew they had unspoken plans for my life, intentions they thought I would have no control over. They told me I looked just like my mother, perhaps that was why I was father’s favorite. Mother watched through my eyes as Gunther and I were married.
Cursed with the gift of clear memory. I recall the feeling of slipping into her womb as they made love on his bearskin carpet. Lilly was with me as we transformed ourselves from vast entities into seeds so small that the only way we could be detected was through mother’s smile. I wrapped myself around her back as we floated, submerged in the warm liquid nirvana. Mother’s heart beating above was like the moon, comforting us with its constancy. Soon there was a tightness containing us in the womb that contracted, then relaxed. We heard moans as she endured the challenge of opening to us.
I knew Lilly would go first. The last I saw of her were her feet as they disappeared from view. I was next. Unlike most babies waiting to be born, we were completely lucid, confined, yet safe beneath the soft thrumming above.
I heard a strange skirt rustling as someone entered the room.
“Push” I heard her say. I slipped out on a river of blood. When I was free, the other woman, Chandi, cut our cords with a warmed knife. We were then wrenched from mother’s yearning arms.
My aspirations were deep and strong while Lilly had yet to take that first breath. The woman with the strange sounds and smells rubbed her still body. She was pallid and I was pink and glowing with the mottled tones of a newborn child.
We lay cold and uncovered on a table as the woman hurriedly left the room. My eyesight was beginning to clear. I could see Lilly laying there, blue like a sacred goddess. Her eyes were closed. Chandi reentered the room just as mother was reaching for us,
“Bronwyn, lay back down, do you want to bleed to death?” she scolded.
Mother obeyed and watched helplessly as one of her children was carried away in a drab grey receiving blanket. I knew she was dead. For the first time I cried.
I felt a cool breeze as Chandi slipped back into the chamber. Mother’s grunts sounded again as a dark, crimson mass slid from between her legs into a waiting towel. Chandi carried it away.
My cries sounded like alarms as I longed for my sisters round back. Mother was now weeping, reaching her arms towards me as the interloper diapered my bottom, wrapped my chilled body in a blanket and whisked me out of the room. We rocked in a chair. I could see her round, full breasts and the nipples that were extended from the abundance of milk. Just the sight beckoned me to suck, my sobs needed to be silenced and milk was my only comfort. I coughed as the sweet, white liquid dribbled down my chin. I submitted to my hunger, though the deep thirst was never satisfied. Drowsy as the chair rocked forward, then back, I allowed my head to rest in the crook of her arm. She softly crooned to me.
Why she hated mother so much, I’ll never know. Why I was paired up with her Gunther was a mystery to me. We shared the same father, yet made love with the same intensity father and mother had shared. I loved Gunther, yet maybe love was the downfall of us all.
“Chandi” it was a deep, male voice, “where is Bronwyn?”
“Go and see for yourself, she’s in the back bedchamber. We lost one of the babies, she’s on my bed awaiting the fire”
I heard him leave the room, my eyes were still closed.
My senses grew sharper. When my eyes opened I looked up to see her face clearly. She was an ample and squishy woman with a round face and eyes as squinty as a rat’s. I could hear mother’s sobs clearly, though she was at least two rooms over.
The door latch sounded again, I looked up to see his red, glowing eyes peering down at me. There was a strange tenderness in his gaze. The round woman handed me over, I heard her leave the room. If I could talk, I would’ve demanded my mother. Her sobs had lowered themselves to whimpers, but I could still hear them. I cried as he bounced me gently while walking around the room. I knew he was my father.
By the time I saw mother, she was doubled over in exhaustion, sprawled sideways on the bed as if she’d been shot in the stomach. He laid me in her arms and left the room. We slept.
“Has she stirred?” Chandi’s voice reverberated through my slumber, awakening me to the solemn room. She pulled up a rocker, I could tell she was watching us. When I grew hungry, my head instinctively turned toward mother’s silken skin. Chandi roused, plucking me from mother’s arms to place me at her own breast. Once done, I was passed through the air back to mother whose eyes were red rimmed from crying. Resting my head on her hardening breasts, she moved me to the side. I sensed her pain, in more ways than one. Nurse, as I began to call her settled back in the rocker and fought sleep. Mother dozed as I indulged my newborn impressions.
Many days blurred into one as I was shifted back and forth from mother to Chandi. I grew used to mother’s salty tears, as abundant as my nurse’s milk. They all grew to accept the death of Lilly except me. She would remain fused to me with the blue flame that was her spirit.















March 1958

Chandi sat at her desk bent over the black bound notebook, furiously writing. The sun had yet to peek over the horizon. Every now and then she would lean back to stretch, look around the room and stroke her swollen belly. Across the room, the portrait in its gilded frame was slightly crooked. She left the journal to reposition the painting. Gazing up at the immortalized face Chandi took in all of the details. The woman in the painting wore a pearl necklace with a gigantic diamond dripping down to meet her cleavage, raven hair pulled into a loose chignon. Those piercing eyes followed Chandi around the room. The only respite she had was when she lay atop the lush, burgundy comforter. The painting wasn’t visible from that location but she often wondered if after she was asleep those sky blue eyes looked down upon her unwary form. Never mind, the picture was straight now. She went back to her writing.
Eventually the usual, high pitched creaking sounded out from the bedroom next to hers. There was soon the familiar banging against the wall behind her bed. She supposed Malcolm was enjoying himself. The damned picture was knocked askew again. Chandi slammed her book shut and slipped it between her mattress and box springs. That was the sign for her to pull her flannel plaid bathrobe over the high- necked nightgown she wore every night. The stairs were steep and slippery as they often are in old Victorian houses, she carefully held the handrail while making the familiar trek to the kitchen. Breakfast was to be a hearty bacon and eggs, with toast and blackberry jam, Malcolm’s favorite..
She sighed while picturing him pulling on his black slacks and white tee-shirt, leaving the spent woman to dress in privacy. He descended the stairs to greet Chandi.
By the time the woman found the dining room, the table would already be full, with the morning feast that was slowly getting cold. Malcolm was ambling around, chatting lightheartedly with Chandi as she brought the softened butter to the formally dressed table.
This woman took longer than the others to find them. Chandi pictured her wandering the halls, disoriented.
What Malcolm had with these other women was miniscule compared with the connection the two of them shared. He even allowed her the bedroom beside his own, the one with his mothers likeness hanging on the wall. The only downfall was that she could clearly hear his escapades with each new woman.
“Morning” the woman’s words startled Chandi as Malcolm stood politely to receive her. It was a blonde this time. There was a ring of smudged, black around her eyes, she kept wiping at it with the back of her hand.
“Breakfast is served my dear” Malcolm waved his hand over the table and then looked back at Chandi with a wink; she looked down at the kicking baby inside of her barely suppressing tears. She bowed to both of them while backing out of the room.
“Who was that?” the woman, whose name was Patrice asked,
“That was Chandi ‘”
“She looks like she is ready to go any minute, where is her husband…does he work for you too?”
“Never mind about her, how are you feeling this morning?”
“I’m a little queasy, food will help”
“Will they miss you on the mainland?” he worried,
“I’m sure not, I disappear all the time”
Malcolm had picked up Patrice about two months ago on the docks; she had solicited his business as he tied the boat to the pier. He had been slightly repulsed by her audacity; usually he chose his own prey…that was the sport of it. He scanned her, from the fake blonde hair that was teased to make it look thicker, to her feet, which were stuffed in black, patent leather stilettos. She walked awkwardly, looking down to dodge the grooves between the cobblestones. Luckily he was alone this time.
Her breath smelled of liquor. Underneath that makeup that looked as if it could be chiseled off, she had an attractive face. Her eyes were as blue as his mother’s had been. He took her up on her offer; they ducked into a dark alley.
He brought her back to the island with him that night.
“If you gather up some of your belongings, you are welcome to stay on in my home for a time”
He rowed back to the land, waiting for her return. She found herself smitten by this mysterious man, there were few things to gather; only a few outfits and her makeup case.

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#2 of 14 Old 06-20-2006, 09:34 AM
 
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what kind of feedback do you want?
i could try, if you give me ideas about what exactly your questions are.
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#3 of 14 Old 06-20-2006, 09:39 AM - Thread Starter
 
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It's part of an unfinished work, I just want to know if it is clear, and also an easy read...also if it raises any questions (for clarity)

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#4 of 14 Old 06-20-2006, 10:35 AM
 
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the first part is clear and interesting. It is easy to read. I normally do not read or write genre fiction, so maybe this won’t apply. But I think that you could develop your characters a touch better, with just several details, to make them more unique and interesting. I’d like to see Malcolm. How he was dressed, his physical appearance. A mannerism or two. I’d like to see Chandi better – what kind of gowns, the colours of them, the textures. This would make the piece really rich, really dimensional. I’d like to see a bit of their dwelling. What kind of door or knobs? Carpets? Windows? Lighting? I don’t mean you need to go in detailed or long descriptions, but several details, again, could add dimensionality to the setting. Overall, I enjoyed it. in inserted some comments in caps in the text. let me know if you have any questions. sorry, i don't have the time for the other parts right now, gotta run.


Chandi, 1995

Why he didn’t let me watch I’ll [never I’D NEVER?] know. I would’ve reveled in watching Bronwyn burn, cloaked in her wavy hair and flimsy gown. Satisfied more to hear the haunting screams of doom than I was in sensing the deep sorrow of loss as she watched me nurse her newborn child, I secretly smiled, enjoying her anguish. [THIS SENTENCE IS A BIT AWKWARD; I THINK YOU NEED A PARALLEL CONSTRUCTION TO MAKE IT CLEAR] My senses were never as sharp as the child’s but it was impossible not to feel Bronwyn’s weeping sorrow as her ashes scattered themselves to the wind. [YOU HAVE ‘SORROW’ IN THE PREVIOUS SENTENCE. I’D LOOK FOR A SYNONYM]

AN INTERESTING OPENING. I’D WANT TO READ FURTHER.

I always hated her, Malcolm treated her differently; he loved her, never giving into the temptation of her blood. He didn’t even let the child nurse lest she pierce that smooth, creamy skin. He also kept the other children from feeding from the veins so visible beneath that translucent skin.

NICE. I’D TRIM THE FIRST SENTENCE, SO THAT THE IDEA OF HER HATING BRONWYN COMES THROUGH STRONGER. YOU CAN CUT THAT HE TREATED HER DIFFERENTLY, BECAUSE YOU SHOW IT IN THE NEXT SENTENCES.

He [MALCOLM] needed me; not only could I weave magic charms, heal the sick and assist in birthing the babies, I could also nurse those children until they turned chubby with good health. Abundant was my milk, it never dried, and tasty was the tangy blood that pooled around their budding, needlelike teeth. My flesh was but practice ground to help awaken the natural hunger that lived inside of their desires. He allowed me to live after I birthed Gunther, it must be that he sensed what a help I could be to him. I did my best to be indispensable. I was so in love with him. I’D CUT ‘SO’.

I begged him to allow Gunther to live until at least twenty before he made him a vampire in his own right. My son became a dashing young man before he died into immortality.
I always hated Bronwyn. NEW PARAThe image of her lying, great with child, on those pristine, white sheets, hair splayed across the pillow burned an inferno in my mind. I had been glad when one of her twin girls died. He allowed Bronwyn’s precious Leila, the one who lived, to turn into a stunning eighteen year old woman before he made her a vampire. I always suspected that he had greater plans for Gunther and Leila.

I grew older, yet my breasts stayed full, our children remained frozen in their youthful beauty.

Malcolm fathered an army of children CLICHÉ, most of whom he made immortal as soon as they came of age; for the girls it was around thirteen, the boys, a bit older. I’D GIVE A PRECISE AGE Each of them came close to death as he drained them to the point of mercy. Each child taking to bed for several days until he slit his wrist and allowed the ruby elixir to dribble over their tounges. They were then frozen in a state of perpetual adolescence. Most I’D CUT ‘MOST’ of their mothers burned above the lake, floating on their own funeral pyre, so drained of blood that they burned quicker than Leila’s mother had. Bronwyn had been full of the precious substance that sustained most of the vampires but Malcolm wouldn’t let them touch her, he almost let her live but reluctantly allowed me to provide him with the potion that would render her body so close to death that she couldn’t move as she burned. It was through tears that he watched her drink the clear, tasteless liquid. He knew what must be done. I helped him to see that.
I begged him to transform me into one of the undead but he refused. NEW PARA Why he didn’t make Bronwyn into a worthy mate for himself I’ll never know, my only guess is that his love for her kept him from causing her the misery he felt every day. Love proved to be his greatest downfall.

Leila looked just like her mother; she stayed close to her father’s side except when she joined the other children, taking turns draining the blood from the women, who were still weary from giving birth. It was often that Malcolm would row back across the lake with yet another woman who had no idea of the fate in store for her, the sleeping snake would lie, until the baby was birthed and the mother was fed on and then burned. The lake was cloudy from the ashes of so many of his victims. I had escaped that grim fate because of my abilities YOU ALREADY TOLD US THIS and Bronwyn almost did because of his love for her. AND THIS TOO Some of the others tried to flee, but there was nowhere to go, this was an island after all.

Malcolm told me that the last word she screamed was “Lilly” the name of the twin that had passed on.

I ached every time I heard Leila whimper in those early days. The front of my gown stayed crusty from dried milk. As I held her, I used to fantasize that I was her mother. Once Bronwyn was gone, I became the moon and stars to baby Leila. Her alert, cobalt eyes would fixate on me intensely each time she wished to nurse. I had the feeling before she was one year old that speech was not far away. I had been there when she uttered her first word, “Lilly”, she said it clearly. We were readying for bed when it came. Malcolm came running as soon as he caught word. I could tell that the other children waited outside of the door as he pivoted towards me.

“Leave us” He lowered himself to his knees, arms encircling his beloved child. I gently closed the door behind me, the latch caught audibly as I tried with great effort to stifle the sobs that stopped short in my throat.
I found myself surrounded by the children I had
been wet nurse to; they seemed to clearly make out what was being said. I, however was only mortal, my senses not as developed as they [THEIRS]. All I could hear was a faint murmuring.
They all followed as Malcolm brushed past carrying baby Leila, he left a void in his wake.
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#5 of 14 Old 06-20-2006, 07:54 PM
 
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I will come back and read in detail as it's almost dinner time and I have only skim read the first section this one time. It's enough to give me a feel for it but not to critique with any quality, forgive me.

My initial response is a bit of a prickle against the cliche and redundancy. This is not my genre so perhaps that's essential to the style? I'm a bit of an Anne Rice fan though. I feel expressions like "haunting screams of doom" or "weeping sorrow" could really be reigned in and expressed with more novelty. In the vampire genre you have sooooo much opportunity to layer your descriptions and really use rich and colorful language.

But I have to say, you've definitely got my attention! I will come back and read some more!
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#6 of 14 Old 06-20-2006, 10:49 PM
 
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OK, I haven't read any previous comments so I hope this isn't too repetitive:

Quote:
Originally Posted by BelovedK
Chandi, 1995

Why he didn’t let me watch I’ll never know. I would’ve reveled in watching Bronwyn burn, cloaked in her wavy hair and flimsy gown. Satisfied more to hear the haunting screams of doom than I was in sensing the deep sorrow of loss as she watched me nurse her newborn child, I secretly smiled, enjoying her anguish. My senses were never as sharp as the child’s but it was impossible not to feel Bronwyn’s weeping sorrow as her ashes scattered themselves to the wind.

Is Bronwyn mortal? It takes an intense heat to burn a human to ashes. If this is a normal fire then she'd burn like a steak - no ashes to be found. Even though it's fiction, it must present as factual in order to sustain our disbelief.

It's a great place to start though - definitely urges me to read on.


I always hated her, Malcolm treated her differently; he loved her, never giving into the temptation of her blood. He didn’t even let the child nurse lest she pierce that smooth, creamy skin. He also kept the other children from feeding from the veins so visible beneath that translucent skin.

Nice insight (above and below) into this complicated relationship.

He needed me; not only could I weave magic charms, heal the sick and assist in birthing the babies, I could also nurse those children until they turned chubby with good health. Abundant was my milk, it never dried, and tasty was the tangy blood that pooled around their budding, needlelike teeth. My flesh was but practice ground to help awaken the natural hunger that lived inside of their desires. He allowed me to live after I birthed Gunther, it must be that he sensed what a help I could be to him. I did my best to be indispensable. I was so in love with him.

Is blood tangy? Doesn't ring true to me. My imagining of blood to vampires is kind of pheromonal, yk? Irresistable, compulsive, addictive, even lustful, but not 'tangy'. I like how Chandi's character is emerging though.

I begged him to allow Gunther to live until at least twenty before he made him a vampire in his own right. My son became a dashing young man before he died into immortality.

Love the names you have chosen so far. Would like a bit more development here. Why did you 'beg' (you seem like such a matriarch) and why twenty? Is Malcolm his father (it's not apparent)? Love the 'died into immortality' - *that* is what a vampire story is all about!

I always hated Bronwyn.

You already said this.

The image of her lying, great with child, on those pristine, white sheets, hair splayed across the pillow burned an inferno in my mind. I had been glad when one of her twin girls died. He allowed Bronwyn’s precious Leila, the one who lived, to turn into a stunning eighteen year old woman before he made her a vampire. I always suspected that he had greater plans for Gunther and Leila.

'burned an inferno' is kind of distracting to me. Doesn't provide a congruent image. Were you repulsed, jealous (I imagine this is what you mean) or lustful? 'glad' might be a bit weak and perhaps doesn't need to be stated. 'greater plans' is so alluring that I continue to read....

I grew older, yet my breasts stayed full, our children remained frozen in their youthful beauty.

yet they grew up to 18 and 20? No longer 'adolescent' to my understanding.

Malcolm fathered an army of children, most of whom he made immortal as soon as they came of age; for the girls it was around thirteen, the boys, a bit older. Each of them came close to death as he drained them to the point of mercy. Each child taking to bed 'taken to their bed' is the expression? for several days until he slit his wrist and allowed the ruby elixir to dribble over their tounges.They were then frozen in a state of perpetual adolescence. Most of their mothers burned above the lake, floating on their own funeral pyre, so drained of blood that they burned quicker than Leila’s mother had. Bronwyn had been full of the precious substance that sustained most of the vampires but Malcolm wouldn’t let them touch her, he almost let her live but reluctantly allowed me to provide him with the potion that would render her body so close to death that she couldn’t move as she burned. It was through tears that he watched her drink the clear, tasteless liquid. He knew what must be done. I helped him to see that.

I like the 'frozen ... perpetual adolescence'. What is 'them' in 'wouldn't let them touch her'? 'precious substance'? and the 'clear tasteless liquid' is the potion? 'couldn't move' - maybe a more impassioned description is worthy here?

I begged him to transform me into one of the undead but he refused. Why he didn’t make Bronwyn into a worthy mate for himself I’ll never know, my only guess is that his love for her kept him from causing her the misery he felt every day. Love proved to be his greatest downfall.

Why did you 'beg' him? (there's that word again). 'Love ... downfall' - is there a more novel way to express this sentiment?

Leila looked just like her mother; she stayed close to her father’s side except when she joined the other children, taking turns draining the blood from the women, who were still weary from giving birth. It was often that Malcolm would row back across the lake with yet another woman who had no idea of the fate in store for her, the sleeping snake would lie, until the baby was birthed and the mother was fed on and then burned. The lake was cloudy from the ashes of so many of his victims. I had escaped that grim fate because of my abilities (dark talents?) and Bronwyn almost did because of his love for her. Some of the others tried to flee, but there was nowhere to go, this was an island after all.
Malcolm told me that the last word she screamed was “Lilly” the name of the twin that had passed on.

Why did he tell you that? What was his motivation?

I ached every time I heard Leila whimper in those early days. The front of my gown stayed crusty from dried milk. [b]('eternally drenched with fresh milk'?)[/i] As I held her, I used to fantasize that I was her mother. Once Bronwyn was gone, I became the moon and stars to baby Leila. Her alert, cobalt eyes would fixate on me intensely each time she wished to nurse. I had the feeling before she was one year old that speech was not far away. I had been there when she uttered her first word, “Lilly”, she said it clearly. We were readying for bed when it came. Malcolm came running as soon as he caught word. I could tell that the other children waited outside of the door as he pivoted towards me.

How about, 'The other children waited outside, ears pressed to the door'?

“Leave us” He lowered himself to his knees, arms encircling his beloved child.

How about just, 'He kneeled' or 'He lowered, ...'?

I gently closed the door behind me, the latch caught audibly as I tried with great effort to stifle the sobs that stopped short in my throat.
I found myself surrounded by the children I had been wet nurse to; they seemed to clearly make out what was being said. I, however was only mortal, my senses not as developed as they (theirs). All I could hear was a faint murmuring.
They all followed as Malcolm brushed past carrying baby Leila, he left a void in his wake.

Ooh, love that last image!


Leila, 1995

Why she hated my mother so much I’ll never know. (Never? Or perhaps later in the story? As painful as it was to marinate in her hatred, I also loved her; Chandi was my nurse.
I always knew they had unspoken plans for my life, intentions they thought I would have no control over. They told me I looked just like my mother, perhaps that was why I was father’s favorite. Mother watched through my eyes as Gunther and I were married.
Cursed with the gift of clear memory. I recall the feeling of slipping into her womb as they made love on his bearskin carpet (cliche! Where do vampires 'do it' that is more otherworldly than humans? A bearskin is just too predictable.). Lilly was with me as we transformed ourselves from vast entities into seeds so small that the only way we could be detected was through mother’s smile. (nice!) I wrapped myself around her back as we floated, submerged in the warm liquid nirvana. Mother’s heart beating above was like the moon, comforting us with its constancy (Moon is ever-changing - not constant at all!. Soon there was a tightness containing us in the womb that contracted, then relaxed. We heard moans as she endured the challenge of opening to us. (Wow!)
I knew Lilly would go first. The last I saw of her were her feet as they disappeared from view. I was next. Unlike most babies waiting to be born, we were completely lucid, confined, yet safe beneath the soft thrumming above.

I don't know about you but I imagine floating in utero or even 'being born' is as close to 'god' as humanity can be! To me, a fetus is completely lucid and quite empathic thanks to mother's hormones flushed through his/her blood. Perhaps vampires are *more* lucid? How can this be conveyed? I love the word 'thrumming'!

I heard a strange skirt rustling as someone entered the room.
“Push” I heard her say. I slipped out on a river of blood (fluid?). When I was free, the other woman, Chandi, cut our cords with a warmed knife. (this would result in blood spurting everywhere - perhaps this image is suited to your commentary?) We were then wrenched from mother’s yearning arms. ('yearning' can be assumed here I think)
My aspirations were deep and strong while Lilly had yet to take that first breath. The woman with the strange sounds and smells rubbed her still body. She was pallid and I was pink and glowing with the mottled tones of a newborn child.
We lay cold and uncovered on a table as the woman hurriedly left the room. My eyesight was beginning to clear. I could see Lilly laying there, blue like a sacred goddess. Her eyes were closed. Chandi reentered the room just as mother was reaching for us, (I know they have other senses but why would they know Chandi by name but not recognise their own mother?)
“Bronwyn, lay back down, do you want to bleed to death?” she scolded.
Mother obeyed and watched helplessly as one of her children was carried away in a drab grey receiving blanket. I knew she was dead. For the first time I cried. (Do you mean the newborn first cry here?)
I felt a cool breeze as Chandi slipped back into the chamber. Mother’s grunts sounded again as a dark, crimson mass slid from between her legs into a waiting towel. Chandi carried it away.
My cries sounded like alarms as I longed for my sisters round back. Mother was now weeping, reaching her arms towards me as the interloper diapered my bottom, wrapped my chilled body in a blanket and whisked me out of the room. We rocked in a chair. I could see her round, full breasts and the nipples that were extended from the abundance of milk. Just the sight beckoned me to suck, my sobs needed to be silenced and milk was my only comfort. I coughed as the sweet, white liquid dribbled down my chin. I submitted to my hunger, though the deep thirst was never satisfied. Drowsy as the chair rocked forward, then back, I allowed my head to rest in the crook of her arm. She softly crooned to me.
Why she hated mother so much, I’ll never know. Why I was paired up with her Gunther was a mystery to me. We shared the same father, yet (as grown adults we would) make love with the same intensity father and mother had shared. I loved Gunther, yet maybe love was the downfall of us all.
“Chandi” it was a deep, male voice, “where is Bronwyn?”
“Go and see for yourself, she’s in the back bedchamber. We lost one of the babies, she’s on my bed awaiting the fire”
I heard him leave the room, my eyes were still closed.
My senses grew sharper. When my eyes opened I looked up to see her face clearly. She was an ample and squishy(?) woman with a round face and eyes as squinty as a rat’s. I could hear mother’s sobs clearly, though she was at least two rooms over.
The door latch sounded again, I looked up to see his (Malcolm's?) red, glowing eyes peering down at me. There was a strange tenderness in his gaze. The round woman handed me over, I heard her leave the room. If I could talk, I would’ve demanded my mother. Her sobs had lowered themselves to whimpers, but I could still hear them. I cried as he bounced me gently while walking around the room. I knew he was my father.
By the time I saw mother, she was doubled over in exhaustion, sprawled sideways on the bed as if she’d been shot in the stomach. He laid me in her arms and left the room. We slept.

In what time period is this set? Are guns commonplace? A 'shot in the stomach' seems out of context - or perhaps the context isn't apparent.

“Has she stirred?” Chandi’s voice reverberated through my slumber, awakening me to the solemn room. She pulled up a rocker, I could tell she was watching us. When I grew hungry, my head instinctively turned toward mother’s silken skin. Chandi roused, plucking me from mother’s arms to place me at her own breast. Once done, I was passed through the air back to mother whose eyes were red rimmed from crying. Resting my head on her hardening breasts (Is this realistic? It takes a few days for milk to come in and it won't happen at all without suckling), she moved me to the side. I sensed her pain, in more ways than one. (Perhaps there's no need for 'in more ways than one'.) Nurse, as I began to call her (but you called her Chandi until now) settled back in the rocker and fought sleep. Mother dozed as I indulged my newborn impressions.
Many days blurred into one as I was shifted back and forth from mother to Chandi. I grew used to mother’s salty tears, as abundant as my nurse’s milk. They all grew to accept the death of Lilly except me. She would remain fused to me with the blue flame that was her spirit.



March 1958

Chandi sat at her desk bent over the black bound notebook, furiously writing. The sun had yet to peek over the horizon. Every now and then she would lean back to stretch, look around the room and stroke her swollen belly. Across the room, the portrait in its gilded frame was slightly crooked. She left the journal to reposition the painting. Gazing up at the immortalized face Chandi took in all of the details. The woman in the painting wore a pearl necklace with a gigantic diamond dripping down to meet her cleavage, raven hair pulled into a loose chignon. Those piercing eyes followed Chandi around the room. The only respite she had was when she lay atop the lush, burgundy comforter. The painting wasn’t visible from that location but she often wondered if after she was asleep those sky blue eyes looked down upon her unwary form. Never mind, the picture was straight now. She went back to her writing.
Eventually the usual, high pitched creaking sounded out from the bedroom next to hers. There was soon the familiar banging against the wall behind her bed. She supposed Malcolm was enjoying himself. The damned picture was knocked askew again. (Haha - love this!) Chandi slammed her book shut and slipped it between her mattress and box springs. That was the sign for her to pull her flannel plaid bathrobe over the high- necked nightgown she wore every night. The stairs were steep and slippery as they often are in old Victorian houses, she carefully held the handrail while making the familiar trek to the kitchen. Breakfast was to be a hearty bacon and eggs, with toast and blackberry jam, Malcolm’s favorite..
She sighed while picturing him pulling on his black slacks and white tee-shirt, leaving the spent woman to dress in privacy. He descended the stairs to greet Chandi.
By the time the woman found the dining room, the table would already be full, with the morning feast that was slowly getting cold. Malcolm was ambling around, chatting lightheartedly with Chandi as she brought the softened butter to the formally dressed table.
This woman took longer than the others to find them. Chandi pictured her wandering the halls, disoriented.
What Malcolm had with these other women was miniscule compared with the connection the two of them shared. He even allowed her the bedroom beside his own, the one with his mothers likeness hanging on the wall. The only downfall was that she could clearly hear his escapades with each new woman. ('downfall' is a bit overused - does Malcolm have some secret reason for putting her in that room?)
“Morning” the woman’s words startled Chandi as Malcolm stood politely to receive her. (Seems more likely that Chandi would be anticipating this woman's arrival - why startled?) It was a blonde this time. There was a ring of smudged, black around her eyes, she kept wiping at it with the back of her hand.
“Breakfast is served my dear” Malcolm waved his hand over the table and then looked back at Chandi with a wink; she looked down at the kicking baby inside of her barely suppressing tears. She bowed to both of them while backing out of the room.
“Who was that?” the woman, whose name was Patrice asked,
“That was Chandi ‘”
“She looks like she is ready to go any minute, where is her husband…does he work for you too?”
“Never mind about her, how are you feeling this morning?”
“I’m a little queasy, food will help”
“Will they miss you on the mainland?” he worried,
“I’m sure not, I disappear all the time”
Malcolm had picked up Patrice about two months ago on the docks; she had solicited his business as he tied the boat to the pier. He had been slightly repulsed by her audacity; usually he chose his own prey…that was the sport of it. He scanned her, from the fake blonde hair that was teased to make it look thicker, to her feet, which were stuffed in black, patent leather stilettos (Stilettos in the '50's?). She walked awkwardly, looking down to dodge the grooves between the cobblestones. Luckily he was alone this time.
Her breath smelled of liquor. Underneath that makeup that looked as if it could be chiseled off (second half of clause not necessary), she had an attractive face. Her eyes were as blue as his mother’s had been. He took her up on her offer; they ducked into a dark alley.
He brought her back to the island with him that night.
“If you gather up some of your belongings, you are welcome to stay on in my home for a time”
He rowed back to the land, waiting for her return. She found herself smitten by this mysterious man, there were few things to gather; only a few outfits and her makeup case.

Overall, I very much like the character of Chandi. She's earth mother, virgin/slut, goddess all rolled into one, plus she is vulnerable - nice and complex. I love that she is wet nurse for Malcolm's brood. I don't understand why she sticks around if she is such a seemingly strong woman-matriarch although perhaps you will reveal that later through her relationship with Malcolm. I can't help feeling that the plot needs more development and that many of the details can be dispersed through descriptive text or in dialogue. Their relationships are obviously complicated - though not yet believably so. It's getting there, but not quite suspending my disbelief. I love a good gothic thriller so I'm definitely the kind of reader in your demographic.

The point in the story where Lilly dies is quite an anticlimax. There needs to be more information for the reader - why did she die, at what point during her birth did she die? Why wasn't everyone devastated? I mean, losing a baby in this day and age is quite a rare event.

I guess the most outstanding incongruency is that you have set it in modern times but it is still decidedly 'gothic' in detail rather than modern. Eg, why does he 'row' out to the island when he could easily use an outboard motor? To my way of thinking, the FBI would clearly be interested in secret goings on on an island in a lake in the middle of nowhere. Satellites have photographed every single corner of this globe now and nothing can get by authorities. Unless you plan to write them into this tale, it just doesn't hold water as a modern gothic tale. I hope this isn't too harsh. There is definitely the seed of a wonderful story here. It just needs some polish. I definitely think there is room in the market for 'outside the box' vampire stories. I would love to read a modern (or future?) vampire story. Wow! The potential there!!
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#7 of 14 Old 06-20-2006, 11:29 PM - Thread Starter
 
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Wow Jodie,

You give GREAT feedback...I have done alot of work developing Chandi's character, the others I have also, but just not as complete.

There is actually a sort of complicated plot that is not revealed yet. The word 'downfal reffering to love is an important foreshadowing, I can see that I have used it in other areas as well...I better look over my thesaurus.

It sounds as if I need to simplify. The Island is supposed to be otherworldly, unable to be found unless invited, I'm still working on how to convey that fact. I'm writing complete biographies for each character so I will get to know their strengths, talents (powers) and weaknesses (downfalls ) This seems to be working well so far. Maybe I will use my index cards for the plot

Also...Stilettos ...I didn't even think about that. What kind of shoes did 'ladies of the night ' wear back then anyway?? perhaps I will just say 'heels' (?)

THANK YOU for taking the time to read and give feedback

Kelly~

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#8 of 14 Old 06-20-2006, 11:33 PM - Thread Starter
 
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Anna,

THANK YOU as well. Now I have some ideas to work with. I agree that I need to be more rich in description.


Kelly~

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#9 of 14 Old 06-21-2006, 12:18 AM
 
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Y'know, maybe stilettos were a 50's shoe? A bit of 'net research will confirm that one for you.

Have you drawn a tree of characters and their relationships? You can shuffle your index card system around to experiment with the storyline and decide when and how to reveal certain details in the plot or about the characters.

I admire you for taking on the challenge of writing fiction. I just can't wrap my head around it at all. Totally lack the imagination - too grounded in the real world I think.

All the same, I find this link really motivating:
http://www.peacecorpswriters.org/pag...ok/day047.html
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Quote:
Originally Posted by marsupial*mama

Have you drawn a tree of characters and their relationships?
That's a great idea, i'll go do that now (well, maybe tommorow) Now I'm re-motivated.

About the stilettos, I just picture Marilyn Monroe wearing them.

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#11 of 14 Old 06-21-2006, 12:50 AM - Thread Starter
 
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Great website, I can't wait until I have the time to really read (I'm just too tired now)

Thanks

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#12 of 14 Old 06-21-2006, 09:07 AM
 
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Yes, I guess I see Marilyn wearing stilettos - although the open toe was more the trend for her, wasn't it. Maybe google 'stiletto' and 'post-war' and see what comes up?
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#13 of 14 Old 06-25-2006, 11:30 PM
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Originally Posted by BelovedK
Chandi, 1995

Why he didn’t let me watch I’ll never know. I would’ve reveled in watching Bronwyn burn, cloaked in her wavy hair and flimsy gown. Satisfied more to hear the haunting screams of doom than I was in sensing the deep sorrow of loss as she watched me nurse her newborn child,.I'd end that sentence and start a new oneI secretly smiled, enjoying her anguish. My senses were never as sharp as the child’s, but it was impossible not to feel Bronwyn’s weeping sorrow as her ashes scattered themselves to the wind.
I always hated her,. Malcolm treated her differently; he loved her, never giving into the temptation of her blood. He didn’t even let the child nurse lest she pierce that smooth, creamy skin. He also kept the other children from feeding from the veins so visible beneath that translucent skin.
He needed me; not only could I weave magic charms, heal the sick and assist in birthing the babies, I could also nurse those children until they turned chubby with good health. Abundant was my milk, it never dried, and tasty was the tangy blood that pooled around their budding, needlelike teeth. My flesh was but practice ground to help awaken the natural hunger that lived inside of their desires. He allowed me to live after I birthed Gunther, it must be that he sensed what a help I could be to him. I did my best to be indispensable. I was so in love with him.
I begged him to allow Gunther to live until at least twenty before he made him a vampire in his own right. My son became a dashing young man before he died into immortality.
I always hated Bronwyn. The image of her lying, great with child, on those pristine, white sheets, hair splayed across the pillow burned an inferno(I like th use of inferno here, considering the burning death) in my mind. I had been glad when one of her twin girls died. He allowed Bronwyn’s precious Leila, the one who lived, to turn into a stunning eighteen year old woman before he made her a vampire. I always suspected that he had greater plans for Gunther and Leila.
I grew older, yet my breasts stayed full, our children remained frozen in their youthful beauty.
Malcolm fathered an army of children, most of whom he made immortal as soon as they came of age; for the girls it was around thirteen, the boys, a bit older. Each of them came close to death as he drained them to the point of mercy. Each child taking to bed for several days until he slit his wrist and allowed the ruby elixir to dribble over their tounges.They were then frozen in a state of perpetual adolescence. Most of their mothers burned above the lake, floating on their own funeral pyre, so drained of blood that they burned quicker than Leila’s mother had. Bronwyn had been full of the precious substance that sustained most of the vampires but Malcolm wouldn’t let them touch her,; he almost let her live but reluctantly allowed me to provide him with the potion that would render her body so close to death that she couldn’t move as she burned. It was through tears that he watched her drink the clear, tasteless liquid. He knew what must be done. I helped him to see that.
I begged him to transform me into one of the undead but he refused. Why he didn’t make Bronwyn into a worthy mate for himself I’ll never know, my only guess is that his love for her kept him from causing her the misery he felt every day. Love proved to be his greatest downfall.
Leila looked just like her mother; she stayed close to her father’s side except when she joined the other children, taking turns draining the blood from the women,I'd take this comma out. who were still weary from giving birth. It was often that Malcolm would row back across the lake with yet another woman who had no idea of the fate in store for her, period, new sentencethe sleeping snake would lie, until the baby was birthed and the mother was fed on and then burned. The lake was cloudy from the ashes of so many of his victims. I had escaped that grim fate because of my abilities and Bronwyn almost did because of his love for her. Some of the others tried to flee, but there was nowhere to go, this was an island after all.
Malcolm told me that the last word she screamed was “Lilly” the name of the twin that had passed on.
I ached every time I heard Leila whimper in those early days. The front of my gown stayed crusty from dried milk. As I held her, I used to fantasize that I was her mother. Once Bronwyn was gone, I became the moon and stars to baby Leila. Her alert, cobalt eyes would fixate on me intensely each time she wished to nurse. I had the feeling before she was one year old that speech was not far away. I had been there when she uttered her first word, “Lilly”period she said it clearly. We were readying for bed when it came. Malcolm came running as soon as he caught word. I could tell that the other children waited outside of the door as he pivoted towards me.
“Leave us” He lowered himself to his knees, arms encircling his beloved child. I gently closed the door behind me, the latch caught audibly as I tried with great effort to stifle the sobs that stopped short in my throat.
I found myself surrounded by the children I had been wet nurse to; they seemed to clearly make out what was being said. I, however was only mortal, my senses not as developed as they. All I could hear was a faint murmuring.
They all followed as Malcolm brushed past carrying baby Leila, he left a void in his wake.



Leila, 1995

Why she hated my mother so much I’ll never know. As painful as it was to marinate in her hatred, I also loved her; periodChandi was my nurse.
I always knew they had unspoken plans for my life, intentions they thought I would have no control over. They told me I looked just like my mother, perhaps that was why I was father’s favorite. Mother watched through my eyes as Gunther and I were married.
Cursed with the gift of clear memory. I recall the feeling of slipping into her womb as they made love on his bearskin carpet. Lilly was with me as we transformed ourselves from vast entities into seeds so small that the only way we could be detected was through mother’s smile. I wrapped myself around her back as we floated, submerged in the warm liquid nirvana. Mother’s heart beating above was like the moon, comforting us with its constancy. Soon there was a tightness containing us in the womb that contracted, then relaxed. We heard moans as she endured the challenge of opening to us.
I knew Lilly would go first. The last I saw of her were her feet as they disappeared from view. I was next. Unlike most babies waiting to be born, we were completely lucid, confined, yet safe beneath the soft thrumming above.
I heard a strange skirt rustling as someone entered the room.
“Push” I heard her say. I slipped out on a river of blood. When I was free, the other woman, Chandi, cut our cords with a warmed knife. We were then wrenched from mother’s yearning arms.
My aspirations were deep and strong while Lilly had yet to take that first breath. The woman with the strange sounds and smells rubbed her still body. She was pallid and I was pink and glowing with the mottled tones of a newborn child.
We lay cold and uncovered on a table as the woman hurriedly left the room. My eyesight was beginning to clear. I could see Lilly laying there, blue like a sacred goddess. Her eyes were closed. Chandi reentered the room just as mother was reaching for us,
“Bronwyn, lay back down, do you want to bleed to death?” she scolded.
Mother obeyed and watched helplessly as one of her children was carried away in a drab grey receiving blanket. I knew she was dead. For the first time I cried.
I felt a cool breeze as Chandi slipped back into the chamber. Mother’s grunts sounded again as a dark, crimson mass slid from between her legs into a waiting towel. Chandi carried it away.
My cries sounded like alarms as I longed for my sisters round back. Mother was now weeping, reaching her arms towards me as the interloper diapered my bottom, wrapped my chilled body in a blanket and whisked me out of the room. We rocked in a chair. I could see her round, full breasts and the nipples that were extended from the abundance of milk. Just the sight beckoned me to suck, my sobs needed to be silenced and milk was my only comfort. I coughed as the sweet, white liquid dribbled down my chin. I submitted to my hunger, though the deep thirst was never satisfied. Drowsy as the chair rocked forward, then back, I allowed my head to rest in the crook of her arm. She softly crooned to me.
Why she hated mother so much, I’ll never know. Why I was paired up with her Gunther was a mystery to me. We shared the same father, yet made love with the same intensity father and mother had shared. I loved Gunther, yet maybe love was the downfall of us all.
“Chandi” it was a deep, male voice, “where is Bronwyn?”
“Go and see for yourself, she’s in the back bedchamber. We lost one of the babies, she’s on my bed awaiting the fire”
I heard him leave the room, my eyes were still closed.
My senses grew sharper. When my eyes opened I looked up to see her face clearly. She was an ample and squishy (squishy strikes me wrong)woman with a round face and eyes as squinty as a rat’s. but I love the rats eyes!I could hear mother’s sobs clearly, though she was at least two rooms over.
The door latch sounded again, I looked up to see his red, glowing eyes peering down at me. There was a strange tenderness in his gaze. The round woman handed me over, I heard her leave the room. If I could talk, I would’ve demanded my mother. Her sobs had lowered themselves to whimpers, but I could still hear them. I cried as he bounced me gently while walking around the room. I knew he was my father.
By the time I saw mother, she was doubled over in exhaustion, sprawled sideways on the bed as if she’d been shot in the stomach. He laid me in her arms and left the room. We slept.
“Has she stirred?” Chandi’s voice reverberated through my slumber, awakening me to the solemn room. She pulled up a rocker, I could tell she was watching us. When I grew hungry, my head instinctively turned toward mother’s silken skin. Chandi roused, plucking me from mother’s arms to place me at her own breast. Once done, I was passed through the air back to mother whose eyes were red rimmed from crying. Resting my head on her hardening breasts, she moved me to the side. I sensed her pain, in more ways than one. Nurse, as I began to call her settled back in the rocker and fought sleep. Mother dozed as I indulged my newborn impressions.
Many days blurred into one as I was shifted back and forth from mother to Chandi. I grew used to mother’s salty tears, as abundant as my nurse’s milk. They all grew to accept the death of Lilly except me. She would remain fused to me with the blue flame that was her spirit.















March 1958

Chandi sat at her desk bent over the black bound notebook, furiously writing. The sun had yet to peek over the horizon. Every now and then she would lean back to stretch, look around the room and stroke her swollen belly. Across the room, the portrait in its gilded frame was slightly crooked. She left the journal to reposition the painting. Gazing up at the immortalized face commaChandi took in all of the details. The woman in the painting wore a pearl necklace with a gigantic diamond dripping down to meet her cleavage, raven hair pulled into a loose chignon. Those piercing eyes followed Chandi around the room. The only respite she had was when she lay atop the lush, burgundy comforter. The painting wasn’t visible from that location but she often wondered if after she was asleep those sky blue eyes looked down upon her unwary form. Never mind, the picture was straight now. She went back to her writing.
Eventually the usual, high pitched creaking sounded out from the bedroom next to hers. There was soon the familiar banging against the wall behind her bed. She supposed Malcolm was enjoying himself. The damned picture was knocked askew again. Chandi slammed her book shut and slipped it between her mattress and box springs. That was the sign for her to pull her flannel plaid bathrobe over the high- necked nightgown she wore every night. The stairs were steep and slippery as they often are in old Victorian houses, she carefully held the handrail while making the familiar trek to the kitchen. Breakfast was to be a hearty bacon and eggs, with toast and blackberry jam, Malcolm’s favorite..
She sighed while picturing him pulling on his black slacks and white tee-shirt, leaving the spent woman to dress in privacy. He descended the stairs to greet Chandi.
By the time the woman found the dining room, the table would already be full, with the morning feast that was slowly getting cold. Malcolm was ambling around, chatting lightheartedly with Chandi as she brought the softened butter to the formally dressed table.
This woman took longer than the others to find them. Chandi pictured her wandering the halls, disoriented.
What Malcolm had with these other women was miniscule compared with the connection the two of them shared. He even allowed her the bedroom beside his own, the one with his mothers likeness hanging on the wall. The only downfall was that she could clearly hear his escapades with each new woman.
“MorningperiodThe woman’s words startled Chandi as Malcolm stood politely to receive her. It was a blonde this time. There was a ring of smudged, black around her eyes, she kept wiping at it with the back of her hand.
“Breakfast is served my dear” Malcolm waved his hand over the table and then looked back at Chandi with a wink; she looked down at the kicking baby inside of hercomma barely suppressing tears. She bowed to both of them while backing out of the room.
“Who was that?” the woman, whose name was Patrice asked,
“That was Chandi ‘”
“She looks like she is ready to go any minute, where is her husband…does he work for you too?”
“Never mind about her, how are you feeling this morning?”
“I’m a little queasy, food will help”
“Will they miss you on the mainland?” he worried,
“I’m sure not, I disappear all the time”
Malcolm had picked up Patrice about two months ago on the docks; she had solicited his business as he tied the boat to the pier. He had been slightly repulsed by her audacity; usually he chose his own prey…that was the sport of it. He scanned her, from the fake blonde hair that was teased to make it look thicker, to her feet, which were stuffed in black, patent leather stilettos. She walked awkwardly, looking down to dodge the grooves between the cobblestones. Luckily he was alone this time.
Her breath smelled of liquor. Underneath that (I'd say'the') makeup that looked as if it could be chiseled off, she had an attractive face. Her eyes were as blue as his mother’s had been. He took her up on her offer; they ducked into a dark alley.
He brought her back to the island with him that night.
“If you gather up some of your belongings, you are welcome to stay on in my home for a time”
He rowed back to the land, waiting for her return. She found herself smitten by this mysterious man, there were few things to gather; only a few outfits and her makeup case.


First, I HATE vampire books and enjoyed this! You sucked me in!

I think you have plenty of detail. I know I'm disagreeing with another persons opinion, but I hate books that get bogged down in endless descriptions of the rooms and textures, etc. I'd rather see it develop slowly and give me a chance to fill in things a bit to MY liking.:

PUNCTUATION! I need it to make it readable. I HAD to add some as I went.


I really liked the way you got a bit from each characters POV. It helped round out the piece.

As you went on, I'd need to learn much more about Malcolm, but I enjoyed the way you're slowly filling it in.

All in all, I think it's great. I'd really like to read a few chapters at a time, to get more of a feel for it.
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#14 of 14 Old 06-26-2006, 12:16 AM - Thread Starter
 
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Thanks Red

I have ALOT of work to do...I'm in the process of researching the history of Scotland (where the story takes place) and vampire lore in general. The first part (most of it) is just a prologue. This is taking alot of time to edit and cut. I like to add detail slowly too, allow imagination to take over.

Remember, the main meat of the story exists only in my head and longhand on paper right now. I'm now writing biographies on each character. Thanks for your feedback

                                Whatever will be, already is...
 
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