THE OTHER GIRLS CHIMED IN WITH THEIR OWN tales of unrequited lust, turning our little confab into a full-blown episode of “Secret Admirers Unveiled.” As my discomfort hit DEFCON 1, one of the girls hit me with a doozy – she wanted to touch my hair. “I just gotta know if it's real,” she breathed, looking at me like I was a unicorn. Against my better judgment, I relented, and the sensation of her fingers ruffling my locks sent a shiver down my spine like an ice cube down a shirt on a hot day.“Holy smokes, it's real!” she exclaimed, sounding like she'd just discovered the lost city of Atlantis in my hair. “I thought you had your hair dyed silver” I shook my head, saying, “It's natural”.Just as I was trying to regain my conversational footing, another girl jumped in, glancing between me and Fiona, who was headed our way with liquid courage in hand. “So, what's the deal with Fiona?” she asked, her curiosity practically palpable. “We're not a thing,” I blurted out, hoping to nip any rumor
SO, HERE I AM, sprawled out on the cold, damp floor of a dark cave, naked as the day I was born. My tiny hands are cuffed with these gigantic chains that look like they could hold down a whole friggin' ship! I let out a groan that'd make a wounded bear sound like a whimpering puppy. Every bone in my body screams in agony; it's like a sledgehammer-wielding madman has gone to town on me. As I try to move, the pain just won't quit. I reach for the keys to freedom, lying oh-so-close on the cave floor. But my hands are shaking like leaves in a hurricane, weighed down by the chains and that ceaseless, pounding pain. I have to wait it out, waiting for my secret superpowers to swoop in and patch me up. I know they'll stitch my broken bones, mend my torn flesh, and silence that shrieking pain. So, I lay there, wincing and writhing on the ground, my eyes tracing over the bloody remnants of my, shall we say, “transformations.” The cave walls are splattered with dried blood, like some abstract p
I'LL BE HONEST, FOLKS—my blood runs colder than an Arctic river at that moment. This isn't going to end well. I cock my head to the side, my lips forming a thoughtful 'O.' Now, what have I called him again? Oh, right—Mr. Bean Head and his glorious bald dome. I've really gone and stirred the pot now, haven't I? “I say I want a mug of beer!” I chuckle nervously, trying to backpedal faster than a clown on a unicycle. But my new friend isn't buying it. Not one bit. “No, no,” he growls, his chest heaving like a stormy sea. “What did you call me?” I clear my throat, scrambling for a way to defuse the situation. “Uh, I said, Mr. Blonde Head!” I lie, hoping he'll buy it. “But... I'm not a blonde,” he says, his brow furrowed in confusion. Well, if he wants the truth, I'll give it to him. My lips curl into a mischievous smirk. Oh, this is going to be good. “If you're not a blonde,” I say, drawing out the moment, “then that means you're a...” I pause, letting the tension build like
SO HERE I AM, FEELING like the cat that got the cream as I lap up the rich, honey-like blood. My serpentine tongue savors every sweet drop, like it's the nectar of the gods. I can't get enough, but eventually, the poor guy's body goes limp in my grasp, so I let him drop. His glassy eyes stare up at me, so I gently close them. I'm not a complete monster, you know? I let out a long, satisfied breath, then hop up onto the bar counter, my gaze sweeping over the rows of glittering bottles. So many choices! I can't decide which one to go for, so I do a little “eeny meeny miny moe” until my fingers land on a fancy-looking bottle of Johnnie Walker. “Aha!” I exclaim. The thick, curvaceous glass and the swirly pattern on the label catch my eye, so I figure, Why the heck not? I grab the bottle, jump back down to the ground, and crack it open. As I take a long, deep swig, the sweet, bubbly liquid dances on my tongue. I can't help but let out a contented sigh. “Next time, you won't argue with m
THE GIRLS STOOD THERE, WIDE-EYED like a pair of deer that had accidentally wandered into a royal banquet. Their eyeballs danced a jig as they took in the swanky surroundings. Cogs turned in their noggins; a blend of wonder and unease wafting off them like steam from a kettle. Who could blame them? The place exuded the chilling charm of the Tower of London on a stormy night. Before they could catch their breath, my footfalls echoed through the hall as I scurried down the staircase like a rat on a sinking ship. Heart pounding, lungs heaving with sweat beads the size of sovereigns on my forehead, I must've been quite a sight. The girls fixed me with the kind of bewildered expressions that a jester might wear if he stumbled into the Queen's bedchambers unannounced. Summoning every ounce of composure, I muster a hearty “I Thank thee,” hoping to sound gracious and not like a raving lunatic. A gratitude floods me, and it takes considerable restraint not to seize their hands and shake the
AS SCARLETT, WINTER AND I SWAP TALES, it's like we're old pals catching up over a pint at the local tavern. Their voices dance through the air, filled with amazement and a touch of confusion. Winter leans in closer to Scarlett, like a cat burglar trying not to wake the guard dogs. Her words spinning a tale that paints the air around us with mystery. “Listen Casper, our girl Scarlett couldn't catch a glimpse of this house from the outside. It's like the bloody thing was playing hide-and-seek. But once she steps inside, bam! It's all there, grand as the day is long, like some fantastic magic trick.” “I know, right?,” Scarlett says with a hefty dose of bafflement. “It's super weird. I just can't make sense of it.” “Maybe the house was always there, hiding in plain sight,” Scarlett ponders aloud. “Sometimes, we get so wrapped up in our thoughts that we miss the stuff right under our noses.” Scarlett's eyes blaze like fireworks on Bonfire Night as she exclaims, “It was like somethi
THERE I WAS, SPLAYED OUT ON THE FLOOR like a discarded rag doll, all gangly limbs and bewilderment. It hit me like a sack of potatoes: my good old body, usually up for a spot of mischief, had finally thrown in the towel. Turns out, when you're a centuries-old vampire, even your vampiric superpowers can't keep you young forever without a decent slurp of the red stuff (Blood). My once-flawless arms and legs now drooped like wilted flowers, life seeping out of me faster than a barkeep pulling pints on a Friday night. I needed a good ol' nibble on some poor unsuspecting neck. As I pondered my predicament, the sun glared down at me through the window, its scorching rays tickling my skin like a fiery tease from an old flame. Time stretched like a lazy cat as the golden orb sauntered across the sky with all the urgency of a snail on holiday. My thoughts started buzzing like a swarm of angry wasps taking a jab at my dwindling sanity. Desolate images of my dried-up carcass pranced throu
THE DUDE'S FOREHEAD CRINKLED LIKE AN accordion as he locked eyes with me and quizzed, “Pray tell, good sir or madam, at what hour didst thou arrive, and by what means of conveyance?” A boisterous chortle rumbled in my chest like a thunderstorm, “Come on, man, you think I'm just going to spill the beans like that? Give me some credit!” His face scrunched up like a discarded candy wrapper sending me into another giddy fit of laughter. Looking around, I soaked up the ambiance, “Oh, hey! I'm Vivaldi Monteverdi, by the way. Swanky digs you've got here – it's cosy and chic, perfect for I*******m envy! And, since you seem to be flying solo, maybe we could cohabitate?” I offered, flashing a blinding smile. His face tensed up like he'd bitten into a lemon. “Pray, reveal unto me the nature of thine intentions.” he probed, “What bringeths thee to mine abode?” I couldn't resist parroting his words with a sprinkle of sass, “you mean, what brings your dazzling self to my trendy nest?” His glar