“Extract from “The Feeding”
By James WF Roberts © 2015
By James WF Roberts © 2015
“Burning neon lights look so smudged, so out of focus in the drizzling rain. I’m standing on the balcony, slowly watching the darkness creep its way across the sky. Fuck I hate cruising, hunting when it’s raining. Lions never stalk the Savannah in the monsoon, nor do Wolves hunt in the rain. How can you follow the right scent, the right tracks in the mud? I know it’s going to be over soon. They say we need a good downpour—a good cleansing.
Even though we were in a temperate zone—there’s was always something in the air, the longing, the humidity, the anxiety of an oncoming storm. You could feel the dullness on the air, the soul-erosion, the numbness of the afternoon sun in a stalemate with the darkening clouds, pendulous overhead, taunting us all. Fuck—I am so bored. Longevity has it’s drawbacks.
The inescapable ennui, the sensual dullness, the barely giving a fuck if you feed or not. The quest for blood, the longing for the essence—the addiction to human flesh, leaves you hanging worse than any drunk going through the DT’s or any smack addict who can’t get a fix. That nagging under the skin, that tiny little flame burning, burning under the skin. I turn on the TV. G-d really has cursed me. Fucking Twilight is on again. I roll my eyes. Light the rest of the joint, I’d been saving for another night like this. I would love to know where Stephanie Meyer gets her information from—I, We, don’t fucking sparkle in ‘twilight’ we fucking melt.
Direct sunlight makes those of my kind go all Wicked Witch of the West. I’m lucky I have built up a tolerance to a bit of gloomy mid-afternoon sun, that’s about it. Ahh, Miss Meyer, your wanna-be masterpiece, the eternal struggle of a bland, persona-non-grata personality and identity, teenage girl, Bella—as bland as Rice cakes, and the choice between bestiality (Jarrod) and Necrophilia (Ed).
Fucking born again bitch!
You’ve made my life hell, it used to be just goths, and emos, and the wanna-be’s who’d hunt you down, after they find out what you are; now it’s the Bella-wanna-be’s. Sadly, none of them were the age of Bella in the book, but were all fucking stay at home mother’s, not lean meat—mostly gristle, mutton dressed up as lamb. I have never fooled around with my prey in a tree—I have hung the carcass of a few people over branches in forests, when the mob with pitch-forks and torches been chasing after me. That’s about it. Fucking Twilight is racist—maybe not racist, but certainly fucking offensive to me and my kind. I have seldom come across others of my kind in this city. I am the apex predator in this territory. Others of my kind know I am here—they seldom venture into my domain, if they did they would know that they would not have very long to live
We don’t have secret meetings, we don’t have underground armies ready to take over the earth—w are not at war with Lycanthropes—with Werewolves; my world is far less Abbott and Costello versus the Wolf man, Frankenstein and Dracula. Twilight, Fifty Shades of Grey—all they are is a rip off of Wuthering Heights.
Ah, the Bronte sisters—now they were women, they were writers. Heathcliff what a great guy he was. I always wondered if Emily had written Wuthering Heights based on our brief and tempestuous love affair. 1847 What year that was. It had always cut me to the quick, that Emily had died in 1848, aged 30. She deserved better than that. All of the Bronte sisters deserved better than the lives they had to live”
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