July 4; OR Just another Vampire Day

July 4; OR Just another Vampire Day

Copyright Althea Infante 2011

copyright Leslie Ormandy 2011 ALL rights reserved

I thought I might share this since at this point, I have no plans for continuing it. It is going to appear in  segments through 4 July. I hope you enjoy it. 

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The explosion of sound filled the night sky with pops of light in a wonderful strobe effect. Sarah loved the explosion; it screened the sound of men’s screams. No need to find a sound-proof room or lure them to a deserted field in the middle of nowhere. She could kill them close to where they had hunted her when they thought her just a helpless runaway whom they could easily use and turn out. The advantage of never looking her age; looking sixteen and “innocent” forever.

The Greyhound pulled into the downtown terminal at 10:00 PM. It was late, but that was actually alright with her since it meant she easily blended in with the riders bustling around waiting for the driver to unload their bags. She waited until the passengers began moving toward the exit with their waiting friends and families, waited until the bus driver slammed the baggage hatch closed before she moved into a patch of streetlight and let the light pick her out. She looked lost and helpless and friendless in her really distressed jeans, too tight Goth inspired tee, tatty graying hooded cardigan, and heavy duty goth makeup.

Sarah had him picked out long before he came up to her. She was bait. After all the long years, she knew how to catch her meal.

“Are you waiting for someone?” He had asked as he appeared out of the darkness over by the car park. He’d also been waiting for the driver to leave so he could see if there was any fresh meat washing up that night.

“My brother is supposed to be picking me up,” she told him, making it obvious though her expression and body language that she was lying as she pulled her threadbare sweater tighter around her shoulder so that her breasts stood out. She needed to set the hook well, make it clear that she was hungry.

“This isn’t a safe place for a young lady to wait alone. Can I buy you a soda or something at the picnic across the way while you wait? You should be able to see him from there. We won’t go far.” Wilton knew it was safe to offer; in this crowd, who would remember him, and no one would tip that he wasn’t from this town.

She put her most trusting face on as she agreed, nervously twisting the escaping strand of hair, “I guess that would be all right.”

“I’m Wilton Courtney,” he informed her, slipping his arm around her shoulder to lead her across to the field. “My daughter was supposed to be arriving home from college on that bus, but I guess she’s been delayed.”

“I’m Sarah,” and Sarah hesitated just the right length of time to indicate she was making up the last name, “Hart.”

 Wilton kept up a line of friendly patter as he bought her the promised soda and a hotdog. He wanted to appear friendly, but fatherly, to keep her on the hook. He was practically salivating as he looked obliquely at her slim body displayed in the goth clothing. It wouldn’t do to let her slip the hook. It had been two months since he’d found a suitable runaway to play with.

“My blanket is set over there,” he told her, gesturing over to the far corner of the field. “You can still see the bus station, but you can watch the fireworks also.”

Sarah let the line of patter wash over her as she let him lead her to his blanket. She let him see nervousness as she sat down on the blanket pulling her knees up to her chest and balancing the plate atop them. She checked the now vacant bus station, the people around her who barely noted the arrival of the two strangers in their midst, and the preparations for the next burst of fireworks to be sure no one was watching.

She took a bite of the hotdog, then turned her head and spat it out into her crumpled napkin – just like she done with broccoli as a child, then pretended to take a sip from her soda cup.

He watched her with hidden interest, waiting for her to turn away long enough for him to slip the roffie into her soda. Then he would sit though the rest of the firework display and carry his sleeping “daughter” to the waiting van. From there, he would driver her to his warehouse where he could have some fun with her before selling her overseas thoroughly broken in. 

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More of this story will appear throughout the month. 

Metaphoric Reality

Oregon Lottery Poster 2014

Sucking blood from a stone?

Over the past several years I have been musing upon the usage of metaphors. They inundate our daily life: rain = sorrow, a rose = love, a wedding ring = eternal love, and yes, I could continue for a very long time; I possess a (economically useless) Masters in English Literature. The question for the day is if the constant, longstanding use of a metaphor -- such as that of a blood-sucking vampire -- as a stand-in for a regular Jane/Joe human behaving in a way which denudes the impacted "victim"-- somehow waters down the original word / idea / entity.

The secondary question would be, if the word "vampire" as metaphor does indeed water down the idea/word/entity, why would it matter? Science tells us, empirically, that real undead, revivified, returned to life vampires do not exist.

Certainly a wide field of literature and media play with this willful assumption of disbelief. Most notably (if my memory serves), Bram Stoker had Helsing argue in Dracula that the most effective way to hide ones existence was to make people believe you are fiction. I do not think he took it the concept far enough. Far to say one is hiding ones existence is still to posit that one exists.

 I have thought, for a fair length of time as I've worked on the idea of vampire as a metaphor, that the best way to hide ones existence it to water it down, to make the very idea of ones existence so used as an everyday noun/verb that it no longer refers to anything specific. The noun "vampire" becomes synonymous with any person sucking the life -- economically, physically, or emotionally -- from another person. 

They are behaving "vampirically" (adverb describing a verb). And if any Joe/Jane can be a metaphoric vampire; pouf goes any concept whatsoever that these fictional beings might actually share the earth with us for we are all, at one time or another, vampires ourselves.

I will pause to reassure anyone who happens upon this post -- I am not positing the existence of the real creature. Nor do I discount it. I am just noting that one function of a cliche is to water down the power of the idea being cliched. Let's look at an almost useless, but very societally meaningful, cliche: The dark and stormy night. Does the rendering of the concept into an overused, almost meaningless cliche actually water down, make less valid -- less real -- the torrential downpour pushed by high winds that the cliche represents?I do suggest that the overuse of the metaphor is rendering it a cliche with a check-list attached, and that the overuse of the metaphor waters down the original in our collective consciousness. We humanize our concept of the vampire, taming them in our minds, and then use it as a pejorative name for each other.

What do you think? Does overuse of a metaphor water down the reality of the vampire?

The Grave by Karamsin part 2

Taken in New Orleans 2009

It would have been terrific if the book ELOCUTION AND ORATORY (yes, all caps) had arrived with a table of contents or an index. I would have found the rest of the short dialogue which I posted a few weeks ago and posted the whole at once. At least the full poetic dialogue comes with minimal attribution; it was apparently written by someone named Karamsin. A reminder that it
speaks rather eloquently of the two approaches to the topic of death. One sees it is a true negative, the other sees the bright-light. 



1. "First Voice
  How frightful the grave!  how deserted and drear!
                     With the howls of the storm-wind -- the creaks of the bier,
                      And the white bones all clattering together!

2. "Second Voice

 How peaceful the grave! its quite how deep;

                       Its zephyres breathe calmly, and soft is its sleep,

                         And flowerets perfume it with ether.

3. "First Voice
There riots the blood-crested worm on the dead
And the yellow skull serves the foul toad for a bed
And snakes in its nettle-weeds hiss.

4. "Second Voice

How lovely, how sweet the repose of the tomb;

No tempests are there -- but the nightingales come

And sing their sweet chorus of bliss. 

5. "First Voice
The ravens of night flap their wings o're the grave;
'This the vulture's abode -- 'this the wolf's dreary cave,
Where they tear up the earth with their fangs.

6. "Second Voice

There the rabbit at evening disports with his love,

Or rests on the sod -- while the turtles above,

Repose on the bough that o'erhangs.

7. "First Voice
There darkness and dampness with poisonous breath
And loathsome decay, fill the dwelling of death,
And trees are all barren and bare!

8. "Second Voice

Oh, soft are the breezes that play round the tomb

And sweet with the violet's wafted perfume,

 With lilies and jessamine fair.

9. "First Voice
The pilgrim who reaches this valley of tears,
Would fain hurry by, with trembling and fears,
He is launched on the wreck-covered river.

10. "Second Voice

The traveler, outworn with life's pilgrimage dreary,

Lays down his rude staff, like one that is weary,

And sweetly reposes forever!

I don't think either side of this dialogue really um...dialogues with the other. They each present a quite different viewpoint (glass half-full, glass half empty?) and walk away fully convinced they have convinced each other. Interesting period piece. 







author: unknown since all attribution is just missing in this text -- a very Victorian approach to intellectual property.

Confessions of a Vampire-Book Slut

 I am Leslie Ormandy, and I confess I am a vampire-book slut.

My first vampire-book relationship was with Bill Compton. He was handsome, gentlemanly, mysterious, and took his time courting me. I enjoyed every minute I spent with him in my arms with his hard-back clasped firmly between my hands. Yes, I knew about his relationships with other women. I knew that even while he was in bed with me, a part of him was enjoying a relationship with someone else. He was indiscriminate and would never be solely mine. Eventually the last page of our relationship was reached, and I had to move on. I had needs. I hated going to bed without someone to entertain me.

My next vampire-book relationship was with Jean Claude. He was masterful, powerful, in control. And the sex was hot, steamy, overpowering. Our liaison lasted longer than the relationship with Bill. But again I had to share him. Gradually I heard other women talking about him. Saw his name mentioned in Blogs, on Facebook, on Twitter. I had to listen to other women talk about the pleasure he gave them, and they many – odd – places they took him to: beaches, Dr’s offices, even the DMV. But even then I remained faithful, unwilling to give up the bliss he provided. Then one day the last page of our relationship was reached, and I knew I needed to turn over a new leaf.

I then began a series of short serial relationships. One book stands you would term them. Oh, I crawled into bed with them whenever they appeared on my doorstep, and they gratified my need for romance, sex, blood, and vicarious adventure, but often my favorites would appear only every other year; then several would appear at the same time, and I would have to chose which one to buy first. Yes, by then I was willing to shell out my hard-earned cash, the product of my labor, in order to take one of my favorites to bed. Even; occasionally, I would take a new vampire to bed to enjoy when I tired of my favorites.  I was becoming a vampire-book slut.

Yes, I know this is a support group for vampire-book sluts and all, and if there ever was a vampire-book slut it is me. I know that I am not alone in the world. I know that I can not possibly be the only person with this dreadful addiction. I am certain that I am not alone in answering the call when it is whispered in the night, in an immortal whisper: “let me… entertain you!”

byline L Ormandy (AKA SweetGoth)

The UnNatural Enquirer

Vampire Paparazzi entry 3

Sometimes a photographer just can't catch a break.

Image design Sandra Ormandy 2012

I waited outside this crypt for days after drilling a small hidden hidey-hole to shoot the picture through. I made certain that there would be no moonlight or starlight bleeding though to alert the vampire to my presence. I stood for hours as twilight approached so that no movement on my part would alert the rising vampire to my presence. Everything was perfect, or as perfect as a human can make it. But I forgot one thing, vampires are faster than the split second it takes my finger to depress the "shoot" button on my camera.

She was really beautiful. You'll just have to take my word for it. Because after all my preparation for this shoot, this is the vampire that got away.

byline L. Ormandy (AKA SweetGoth)
The UnNatural Enquirer

Vampire Paparazzi entry. 2

This is not an area even an ardent vampire hunter like myself would venture after dark. No number of garlic wreaths, crosses, or stakes would make it worthwhile.I like my blood just fine where it is: inside my own skin. Daytime; however. I decided to remind those readers who think the undead life of the vampire nothing but drink, drink, drink that -- as with the living -- that sort of life is reserved for the top 2%.

The poor crypt at right is shared by an unknown number of tenants (and nope, I'm not knocking on that door! even in daylight). It is hidden in the sort of rough neighborhood respectable paparazzi avoid since the Edward Cullen's of the world don't live here. And certainly regular journalists don't knock on this door either since few Pulitzer prizes are given to breaking news about "real" vampires. Even my own newspaper, the "UnNatural Enquirer"  no longer caters to the sort of audience interested in reading of the sad tales of the previously-living. They pay for the tales of the upscale, the well-dressed, the politically powerful, and the beautiful creatures of the night.

This paparazzi would liken this to a beyond death plight. Even the dead have to rest somewhere.

 25 May 2014

byline L. Ormandy (AKA SweetGoth)
The UnNatural Enquirer