A cup of Josiah

The cool night breeze gently sweeps through my hair curtaining my hair, and for that split second I become that quiet, shy girl I once was. He nudges me from my thoughts, playfully shoving his elbow into my tummy. I look up and smile, assuring him it’s nothing serious.

My whole world changed since I met Josiah.

An art and film major at the University of Champagne. It was his smile and personality that won me over. A medium-built man, with reddish blonde hair, a goatee and the bluest eyes I have ever seen on anyone, he always wore t-shirts that had statements stitched onto them. And he always carried a brown messenger bag, slung across his right shoulder that included everything from his Ipod to his laptop to his favorite book.

I was sulking over something at the library-I can’t recall over what-when he slid over to the seat opposite me, and simply stated “brooding doesn’t suit you”. It was something so unexpected and honest that I couldn’t help but laugh out loud.

He had me smiling and laughing over simple topics that we had to leave the library from repeated complaints of us disturbing the others. We walked to a Starbucks coffee place, not three blocks away. Before I knew it, three hours had passed by. I was pleasantly surprised by my meeting with him, that I took the step of asking him his number.

From then onwards, we would meet at Starbucks once in a while and after coffee and an intent discussion on the subject of the day, we would take a stroll. These strolls started getting longer and lasted trough most of the night.

Josiah became one of my best friends. Every problem I had, I would bitch to him about. He would always listen, never complain and advise me on what to do. He would always be my pretend boyfriend for events that required couples. And we both thoroughly enjoyed secretly playing boyfriend and girlfriend with each other.

One day, I hope we can truly have a relationship. One that will include making decisions as one. One that involves moving in together. One that would involve private picnics and make out sessions. Cuddling up during a movie or just holding hands while we walked.

Until then we have our coffee and our night walks.

Change

Seems like cockiness comes with becoming thinner. Or maybe it’s just confidence. I wouldn’t know. It’s new to me. All my life I’ve been obese. As I gradually loose weight I find myself staring at the mirror and actually liking the way I look. I actually care what I look like or what I wear for the day. A simple task that involves taking the garbage outside now takes fifteen minutes instead of five. My hair has to be the right way. My clothes should look descent. What if my neighbor happens to be standing outside? I wouldn’t want them to think I‘m shabby or don’t take care of myself. I swear it never used to be this way. Even going out to family events, I take the time to wear the right kind of blush, eye shadow and lip gloss. Even my attitude is changing. I’m more positive and enthusiastic about stuff. When people put me down I just shrug it away and go on with my life. If it were said to me in the past, I would have nodded, agreed with the person and done nothing about the situation. People notice it too. Now I get complimented a lot. You look nice. You’re loosing weight. You look different. That’s cause I am different. Weird. I’m turning into the people I hated the most-chirpy, happy skinny people. And you know what, I look forward to it.

Nikki's dream

They danced with fevered passion, oblivious to the danger around them. I could smell their blood from where I stood twenty-three stories above the club. They were young, naïve and careless. And that worked to my benefit. It would make the chase all the more fun. It was their last moment that sent desire coursing through my veins. For in that moment they would understand what was going to take place. That there were other beings on this earth, that were bigger, stronger and smarter than them. When they cover in fear against the corner, that’s when their blood tastes even more sinful. And before they have the time to take it all in I would take them in my arms, like a lover does, and drain them of their life source.

For when one dies, another is born.

I smile in anticipation of the kill. I have targeted my victim, the strong, silent type with more wisdom then people three times his age. Yes. He will make a great partner and lover. But I have to be aware of my surroundings for there are many others that also lurk around, and they will kill their own kinds just to get a taste of the others.

Over the past few months our tiny group of fifteen has expanded to a large forty seven. No doubt, the carelessness and hunger of the younger ones. We were to wait, choose our victims carefully, as I have done mine. The strong ones are good. The silent, innocent ones even better. After the transformation they became much stronger than the strong-willed, bold types.

Brian is his name. I’ve heard the other girls giggle and whisper about him. He walks by unfazed by their girlish laughter and their excessively tanned skin. Some of them look disappointed; others are more turned on by his ignorance. I enter the club; one of the few silhouettes bathed in black. I have become quiet accustomed to the stares of people, men and women alike, and can smell their desire. They often are stunned and drawn to our marblesque forms, and our sharp green eyes; that if caught causes hypnosis and even more deadly, paralysis. Presuming you use that power on them. I should know, for I was once drawn to it too, giving into my fate.

I choose to ignore their stares and instead focus on him.

He turns slowly as though he can sense my desire towards him..and then to my amazement he smiles. From the looks of girls I presume he rarely does. He walks to me with such grace and…predatorness..that I’ve never seen any human own. When he stands inches from my face he towers over me and suddenly, I feel a vulnerability that I haven’t felt since I was human. He smiles, gently-which eases me a bit, then leans down and whispers with the smoothest voice, “meet me outside, away from these slobs”. And with that he leaves, his powerful shoulders striding past the crowd.

I blink my eyes, still stunned as to what happened. I shake of the numbness and descend back to the hunter I was. I walk out of the club and make sure to side step the vomit, no doubt from the excessive drinking of some of these kids. He stands against the brick wall, arms folded, a smirk on his face as he turns his head to acknowledge me. I feel myself getting turned on, and am very confused as to where these feelings have come from. I am the hunter therefore, I should be in charge. Not him.

He is quiet aware as to what I am, for when I come to stand face to face with him, he discards his trench coat on the floor and reveals his smooth, muscular chest to me. “Don’t make it so obvious”, he states with such smoothness. “If we lay on the ground and your lips are on my chest, they may think otherwise.” I look around as though doubting myself for the first time, then turn back to him. The next few hours are a blur.

All I remember is hours and hours of unbridled passion. Our bodies rhythmically moving against each other, animalistic grunts echoing of the empty room, our sweat sleeked bodies fitting perfectly together. There are at least a hundred bite marks and scratches on our bodies. Our relationship is forbidden and it is this very thought that makes me want to fuck him more.

He drains more blood from me than I from him. And the next few days are a mystery to me. Suddenly, I don't just want to drink people's blood, but tear their flesh from their bodies. The moon becomes my teacher and leader and I follow it as the change comes over me. I grow fangs three times the size I bore before, and I find myself easily being able to leap from building to building. The sharp talons on my feet and hands make it all the more easier to climb up walls, sneak up on anyone, and tear my victims apart.

And suddenly he's there. Brian. Chasing me down with a rifle. I race frantically trying to avoid the silver bullets. The game has suddenly changed.

The hunter has become the hunted.

Angel

It happened on February 23rd, 2007 precisely at 7:31 in the evening. I don’t remember getting into the car or driving 2 hours, just to see him.

The oldest son of Mr. Rammstein, owner and creator of Krate Industries, a billion dollar industry he had it all. The ginormous mansion that stretched for miles, and included everything from bowling alleys, to a kitchen the size of three living rooms, to a backyard with an ocean view. Their ocean. Yes, I said backyard with an ocean view, because they could afford to have it that way. A pool that could fit a whole house in it or maybe two, and that was just one pool. Five dogs, three cats, two hamsters that were paid little to no attention at all, and a parrot just cause it was ‘cool’ to have one. Two younger sisters that made Paris and Nikki look modest. Ha. And two brothers, one two years younger to him, the other four years younger. Spoiled would be an understatement to best describe the occupants of this house. Except for him.

He seemed so beyond the money and royal treatment and could care less what the trend of the day was, be it clothes or a nightclub. It was for his modesty that he came to be the outcast of the family. That, and he never really was close to his siblings because of the age gap. As other rich kids do, he had the privilege of going to the best schools in and out of the country. He traveled a lot. Met a lot of famous people. But nothing affected him or touched him more than seeing the sight of the impoverished people in Africa and India.

But it wasn't his modesty that drew me to him. Or his deep, dark brooding eyes. There was just something about him that I couldn't quiet place my finger on. There seem to be this sadness in his eyes. As though he were pleading silently from the world to help him from something he couldn’t escape. It has been 5 years since he last saw his family. That day he walked out of the house and left everything he became a new man, a changed man. If one were to hear the story of Angel Rammstein or come to know of him, their demeanor towards him would take a complete 360.

I first met Angel when I started my new job at Krate Industries as an assistant manager. Yes, thee Krate Industries. It was Angel’s mom that convinced her husband to let their oldest son work there, for she loved him more than she had every loved anything in this world. He was her first born, the light of her eyes. Angel, had hesitated at first to work in the very company that could bring him face to face with his past. But his mom promised him that he could work under his conditions and it would never be known to anyone, that he was the son of Mr. Rammstein. And so it was, that he came to be known as Angel, and only Angel.

the slightest touch

Everybody tells you that your first kiss is the best thing ever. Or that sex is so addictive. I think otherwise. It isn’t the kiss that gets to me, but the time before I know it’s gonna take place. It isn’t the sex that turns me on, but his knowing smile and the glint in his eyes. When our lips slightly graze each other and he pulls back to tease me. When he reaches over and ‘accidently’ brushes his hand over my breast, or down my spine. When he blows slowly behind my ear or strokes the inside of my thigh. That’s when I melt. He makes sure that his hand slightly brushes mine, then turns around and pretends like it was an honest mistake. He loves to see me squirm and is elated when it’s in public. Bastard. He always manages to stand next to me, in a room full of people and I know it’s cause he’s itching to touch me. And that turns me on. He loves to see me shudder with wanting and for some reason I play this game with him again and again. It’s isn’t the act that takes place that gets to me, always the seconds before it takes place. When our bodies are inches from each other and his face tilted towards mine. It’s the slightest touch that gets to me…always.

rain, rain..go away

It's raining again. I run to find shelter before my clothes get completely wet....

I've always loved the rain. The dark atmosphere, the cold air, the bright flash of lightning, the loud booming of thunder. It all appeals to me. Everytime I tell that to Sarah, she stares at me like I have three heads. I cannot explain it to her..or to anyone else for that matter. Ever since I was a child, my mom told me, that at the first sound of thunder kids would run screaming from the room..but me, and my brother George would always race to the window, smiling ear to ear and stare at the dark, gloomy weather in awe. This strange awe for rain and the darkness that came with it, continued as I grew up.

And then I met him. Michael. One of the biggest pain in the asses I have ever had the privledge of meeting..and unfortunately for me..he sits right beside me in english class. I hate him with every ounce of breath I have..except for one thing...it's mostly him that takes whatever little I have.

Okay, so that's horribly cliche..but that's how it is.

I don't know when it started. The teacher, as usual, would read little snippets from one of the books assigned for that day, and later on in the day she'd fire away questions with such enthusiam it made half the class wince. Most of the time it was Michael that answered the questions, with such sarcasm and smugness..most of the awnswers having nothing to do with the book itself..but for some reason, Ms. Mason would just smile, nod her head approvingly and start firing away the next question..and this cycle would start all over again until class ended.

I was the only one in the class that could see through Michael and his so called 'charm'. It was like the whole class was intrigued by what he had to say, boys and girls alike. I swear there was something in the school water..which thankfully I do not drink.

But for all the attention and approval he got from the others, he seemed to completely over look it and instead focus on what I felt or what I thought on the subject. On the second day of class, he turned to me with his blue eyes, curious on what my stand was on the subject we were discussing in class that day. Of course, after I told him my thoughts on the subject he replied back with a smart ass comment that resulted in me looking like an idiot and a fit of giggles and hands, pointing all towards me. From then onwards I didn't tell him how I felt, unless instructed by my teacher and my teacher alone.

But his intrigue with me carried on far beyond the class, and no matter how much I ignored him he managaed to be there, helping me pick up my fallen books, giving me my calculator I accidently left in math class..entering his car, parked, of course, right next to mine.

And for the strangest reason that cannot be explained scientifically, it seems like everytime he's around it always rains..a slight drizzle, a few droplets of water or sometimes a rain shower that will go on for hours. I swear it's like he controls the weather or something. That or God must be having the time of his life watching me squirm over Michael.

Why does he have to steal my weather? My thoughts?

He is always there. If not in the seat next to me, then in my head. Or in my dreams. That's when it got worse. I don't remember how or why he got there. His smile, his eyes..they'd always find a way into my head and leave me feeling breathless..or..ugghh!!

I hate him! His stupid smile. His sharp-piercing blue eyes. His broad shoulders. His strong hands. His god-like, marbelesque body. His smooth, husky voice...

"Hey Gabby" God help me.