Guest blog by ex-vampire baby on bites and the World Cup

By Gaius Julius Rex

Artistic interpretation of the World Cup,
recent bites and my teddy bear.

Yes, it is me Gaius Julius. I return from the (fictional) dead for a special World Cup report, after much pleading by the human blogger, Lucianne Poole.

Naturally, you are eager for an explanation as to my lengthy silence. I will only say it is related to the recent resurgence of 80s fashion.

Furthermore, I am no longer vampire baby. I am now ex-vampire baby and most currently a vampire adolescent. I will explain: I am experiencing the equivalent of what you call in human terms, puberty. My tricycle, monopoly-playing and trampolining days are over.

I have entered a new chapter in my fictional life, which involves the following. (I am going to use bullets):

• video games, which my mother, T. Rex, describes as "aggressive",
• various hair products,
• strange new feelings that lead to indiscriminate (vs. discriminate) biting.

This brings me to the World Cup. Uruguay's Luis Suarez was banned for four months for taking a nibble out of the Italian soccer player Giorgio Chiellini during the June 24 match, which Uruguay won 1-0.

At first, Suarez valiantly defended himself and denied the bite. Since then, Mr. Suarez, apologized to Chiellini. I applaud Mr. Suarez for taking responsibility, however, isn't it time to come out of the coffin and be counted as a [deleted]? My lawyer edited this blog.

This is the end of my post.

11 signs that your colleague is a vampire

By Lucianne Poole

In keeping with my vampire book, The Shadow Service (a tale of vampires working in Canada's federal government), I'm providing a public service (you're welcome) by sharing these signs that you may be working with a vampire:



1. Over-enthusiasm about office skating parties or other events in which bloodshed may be likely.
2. Unusual habits such as hanging upside down in storage closets.
3. General dislike of Middle Eastern food and any other cuisine containing copious amounts of garlic.
4. Compulsive use of breath mints to hide bad breath.
5. Preference for archaic swear words, possibly in dead languages eg. "Thou knave!" or "God's wounds!"
6. Empty blood packs in the kitchen garbage.
7. High number of absentee staff (i.e. they're too weak or too dead from having their blood sucked).
8. Multiple invitations for a "bite to eat".
9. Glazed expression and salivation at close proximity when you wake up from your post-lunch nap.
10. Use of telepathic communication instead of email (this also explains your mysterious headaches).
11. Long incisors, which may or may not be hidden by expensive dental work.

Disclaimer: If your suspected colleague only meets one of the above criteria, it's unlikely he/she is undead. However, if your colleague meets all the above criteria, that's a different story (good luck).

Why do you suspect your co-worker of being a vampire? Feel free to share suspicious traits.

The Shadow Service

By Lucianne Poole



Photo credit: Little-vampire-by-Ceskino

Here's an updated excerpt from the vampire novel I've been tinkering with. Thanks to Sherry Soule for her valuable feedback and also to the participants of K.T. Crowley's January Test Run. 

In this scene, we meet the protagonist, a well-behaved vampire who works for the Government of Canada.

 

They have sent another one. Antonio glanced at the warning from the deputy minister and absent-mindedly shredded the note with his pale fingers.

He sighed and dropped the feathery strips of paper into his waste paper basket. A sliver of paper remained speared upon a long, talon-like fingernail. Antonio made a mental note to pare his nails before he went out for the night.

It was only 10 a.m., but you would never know it. The windowless office was cast in perpetual gloom. The weak light from the solitary desk lamp and soft glow of his computer screen provided enough light to reveal walls as bare as a monk’s cell. It would seem old habits were hard to break. Except for the framed photo on his bookcase, the Persian carpet blanketing the floor was his only concession to adornment. In fact, the rug proved quite useful; it hid the green carpeting that spread across government office floors like creeping mold.

Antonio scanned the staff meeting agenda on the desk before him. He straightened his tie and smoothed back his hair. With the grace of an athlete, he rose from his desk and stretched his limbs luxuriously.

It was time to meet his latest adversary.

What do you think of this rewrite? Fangs, in advance, for the comments.

Near Smiths Falls

An ode to an Eastern Ontario winter
By Lucianne Poole

The train plows through fresh snow.

Like a cloud of icing sugar, it blows past my window.

Pine boughs dusted white,

And bare maples blur against the blue sky.

The train rattles along the icy track.

Cows look up from across a fence.

They've seen it all before.





Having said I've written few poems, I keep digging them up on scraps of paper. This has proven useful because as I'm reading my old stories, I'm realizing they need work - alot of it! - before I foist them upon you. 

I wrote this short prose poem one cold February on a Via Rail train between Ottawa and Toronto. It's a striking route, particularly in winter, that takes you across frozen fields and forests and through picturesque towns like Smiths Falls, Ontario. And, of course, past blasé livestock.

Contest Mania

By Lucianne Poole


On top of the world, in this case Bald Mountain, Vermont.

I interrupt the weekly story with a news flash. Apologies for bitter disappointment and general outrage.

I almost had a heart attack this past Monday morning. I received an email with this subject line: Congratulations!

Naturally, I thought it was spam, a mistake or perhaps a cruel joke. After all, it's been years (literally) of rejections or just no responses from agents regarding my novel.



The message read that I had been chosen as one of 25 finalists in a novel-writing contest.

I had entered my paranormal novel in a respected, NYC-based contest. Of course, I nurtured some vestige of hope. But, based on past results ie. 24 rejections, hope was at the molecular level. So, I was ecstatic to hear that mine (ie. the first 250 words) was one of those chosen out of 130 submissions. Now I just have to wait another three weeks to find out if an agent's interested in my work.

Meanwhile, a big thanks to all of my friends and family members who have read and critiqued said novel. And also thanks to you, readers of my blog. I'm very encouraged by your interest in my work.

Back to contests and awards: I used to enter short story contests all the time but gave up a few years ago. This was because:

a) I never won;
b) the judges never chose stories like mine; and
c) I decided to spend the time on my novel.

On the other hand, if you win a contest, it can be a huge boost especially if you are a "new" writer. And you might even get published! Canadian author Vincent Lam, whose first book of short stories won the Giller prize, recently weighed in on the value of awards in the Ottawa Citizen.

But as you writers out there know, there are also pitfalls to entering contests. You should know what you're getting into. The Science Fiction Writers of America (SFWA) covers this subject well in the contests and awards section of its Writer Beware.

What do you think of writing contests and awards? Share your comment below.

Back to our normal or paranormal programming next week, when I may (or may not) have come back to earth.

Floating

By Lucianne Poole

I can see my mum's white legs

through the water.

A bird's eye view

from the window above.

The lake is still, flat like a mill pond.

The morning is young,

and she slips through the water

like a pale shadow.


After the melodramatic Bad Laundry, I thought a short prose poem might fit the bill. I wrote this on a scrap of paper about 10 years ago after a trip to Vermont with my folks. I like it because it catches one of those peaceful moments that are so fleeting. I never submitted it anywhere.

Bad Laundry: Part 3

The conclusion of a three-part spooky story in time for Halloween. If you missed the first two parts of the story, scroll down to find them below this post.

By Lucianne Poole

Three wild-eyed men stormed in. I knew at that moment I was done for. They stood between the only exit and me. Trapped, I froze like a doe in the headlights, hoping not to be noticed. I could only stare in dismay – they had no laundry bags.
It could only mean one thing.

The first man, in his late 20s, obviously provided the muscle for the group’s nefarious purposes. His large biceps were tattooed with evil-looking barbed wire. He also had a shaved head and an ugly scar running down the right side of it. No doubt it was easier to carry out orders with less brain.

The second man was about the same age, but taller and thinner with dark hair. He was compulsively grabbing at clothes left on the table adjacent to the door. I earmarked him as the probable toilet-seat stealer.

As the marauders paused to rip open dryer doors and rifle contents, I could see the third man, obviously their ringleader. He was in his 50s and had the long ponytail and Birkenstocks of an aging hippie. He carefully picked his way over the hidden crater. This was, no doubt, one of his haunts. Framed by rounded-wire glasses, his eyes searched the room and lit upon me. He hesitated.

“We just got a call from our roommate,” he said to me.

I thought I heard a note of apology in his voice. No doubt it was a trick.

“He’s in Cuba, but he forgot to pick up his laundry before he left last week.”

As if to confirm the fact, scar-head said: “These dryers are giving off residual warmth; they’ve recently been used. Therefore, this can’t be Clive’s stuff.”

“You could ask the attendant in the car wash,” I squeaked, playing along with the charade to gain precious time. “He supervises this place.”

The ringleader nodded and ordered a retreat. The trio filed out. I sprang to my feet and ran to my washers. My heart sank when I realized they were still on “rinse”. My eyes darted to the door, now unobstructed, and back to the washers, now juddering alarmingly as if protesting my imminent escape. And then it hit me. I realized that freedom could only come at a high price: no underwear, not to mention my new pair of designer jeans.

Five minutes later the doors of the laundromat swung open again. The swearing attendant entered swearing and wielding a full garbage bag. The three “roommates” followed hot on his heels.

“People leave their f***in' stuff all the time,” the attendant said, unceremoniously dumping the bag on the table. “What I want to know is, what are they f***in' wearing?”

The roommate with the dark hair and fleet fingers sorted through the clothes. Every now and then, he would hold up an item and say things like: “Would Clive wear something like this? Are these his colours?”

The men soon realized that they had no clue what Clive wore, nor did they care. But when the dark-haired man retrieved a white lacey bra, the words died on their lips.

“Well, I guess that can’t be Clive’s!” scar-head said with a forced laugh. But his eyes said he sure as hell hoped it wasn’t his roommate’s.

The roommates admitted defeat and, empty-handed, they began to file out of the laundromat. The dark-haired one suddenly stopped in his tracks.

“Wait a second, I have to use the washroom.”

End

Bad Laundry is the true story about my strangest trip to my local laundromat in Ottawa, ON, Canada. It was also the last creative writing piece I submitted for publication. Geist (to which I sent most stories, although I guess I shouldn't have put all my eggs in one basket) rejected Bad Laundry in 2009: ".. the story is focused more on the narrator's anxiety than on the story that is unfolding in front of her."

After that rejection, I decided to channel my efforts into writing (and re-writing) my paranormal novel. I've entered the novel into a NYC-based contest this week, so we'll see if the efforts paid off!

Meanwhile, let me know what you think of the story and the original art.