Awesomeness

I am immensely proud of my muses at this second, Kieran and Imogen have won me first place in a writing contest at my library, whoopee!

Here is the story, did it deserve to win?

Diary of a Reformed Vampire

By Wordalier

Kieran had had the disease for exactly one hundred and sixty-five years.

And as he gazed at his reflection, he looked no different than he had in 1845.

Kieran Harolds looked normal enough, his nondescript black hair and blue eyes helping him blend into a crowd. The only sign of his difference was perhaps, the edgy look he wore most of the time, or the sickly pale skin born from years of dark rooms lit only with the glow of a computer screen. Then there was the only other part of his appearance that separated him from the rest of the human race, Kieran opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue, like a sick child. Cat-like fangs were sitting where his canines should’ve been, he frowned at them, and sighed. This was his usual mood, blank. There were those rare occasions where he lost it, his mood swings that were so terrible not even Imogen could calm him then, she just sat in her bedroom, and listened to her ancient mp3 player.

Kieran William Smith was born in London, 1825, March 13th, he’d been a slow, sweet boy who had the fortune to be born into a rich family. In his teen years, Kieran had fallen in with a rougher sort of people, and on the eve of his 20th birthday, he’d met Blanche de Fleur Cummings. Kieran had considered himself a ladies man, and Blanche’s wide eyes and curvy figure had enticed him into a quiet alley.

The next day, Kieran’s family presumed he was dead and had had a small ceremony, then life went on. Kieran opened his eyes, he had been napping, a usual occurrence these days, now a dream about Blanche had woken him, Imogen had said you never forget the eyes of your sire or dame, Kieran thought this was probably correct. He groped a little, and found the hard surface of his laptop, he pulled it from caved in covers and opened it, he gazed at the screen for, a minute, then pulled up Word, he considered a spider sitting on his desk, which was groaning under hundreds of heavy books, Kieran smiled and started typing.

Kieran Harolds sits on the prow of a merchant ship, the year is 1850, and he’s known as James O’ Donell, James is hailed by a pretty girl on the wharf, “James! Father wants to know if you’ll be over for dinner tonight!” James smiles his close mouthed smile and calls back, “Aye, Isabella! I’ll be there!” Isabella Graham is the daughter of Captain Horace Graham, James’ superior.

As night fell, James set forth to the Graham’s residence, but while passing an alley, his ears caught something. A whimper. James stepped into the cramped alley softly and registered four things. Isabella lay prone on the ground, a devilish looking man loomed over her, there was a knife in his hand. The knife had blood on it. Kill, now, food, Kill. Kieran flies toward the man, fangs unveiled, Isabella sits up, shock lighting her delicate features. Then there is food, blood, Kieran rejoices and laments, the blood is loved and hated, Kieran can feel the pump of the blood, the warm, seductive taste. And he can feel the bitter, sickening side of the palate too. When the man lies, drained, Kieran turns to Isabella, his glowing eyes are mirrored in her own, wide brown ones. She is scared, Kieran hesitates. KILL. Then his mouth is on her throat, Isabella gasps, “James!” And he stops.

“Kieran! Your stuff is here!” A ragged voice floated up the stairs, and Kieran was torn from his writing. “Coming, Imogen!” he called, then saved the document. A girl sat at the kitchen table, her watery green eyes flickered around the room, a coffee cup rested in her hand. Kieran smiled, Imogen wasn’t exactly pretty, and she wasn’t the cleverest person, but they seemed to fit, like a puzzle, two misfits. He had gotten writer’s block a few minutes ago, and had had to stop in the middle of his writings, “Still working on that memoir or whatever?” Imogen inquired, Kieran nodded and shrugged nonchalantly.

Kieran’s empty eyes stared at the moon as he sat on a bench, he was in a small park, shaded by large oaks. He picked up the bulging sack sitting under the bench, this was the least painful way, he could wait for the sun, but he’d seen the results of that. This was the only way to go, a sharpened piece of wood was in his hand now, Kieran took a deep breath and placed the sharp end directly above his heart, he closed his eyes and-

WHAM! A sneaker struck him across the face, he fell off the bench, stake clattering away from him. A woman’s face appears above him, she slaps him twice. “You idiot! What’d you go and try to stake yourself for?” Kieran is at a loss, his mouth hangs open, the woman laughs bitterly, exposing cat-like fangs, Kieran freezes. “You think I’m going to let some dunderhead I see mucking about STAKE HIMSELF?” Kieran manages to mutter weakly. “It was the only way to go” “Stop whinging.” The woman’s voice is cold, she grabs his hand and begins to lead him out of the park, “Who are you?” Kieran asks, bemused. “Imogen, yours?” “Kieran”

Kieran was sitting in his room again, he sucked something red slowly through a straw and grimaced, he picked up a glass of water sitting on the bedside table and swiftly gulped it down, then he retched. Imogen immediately flew up the tiny stairway as Kieran began to vomit violently, she whipped out a trash can and sat there. As the contents of his stomach exited, Imogen soothed him, continuingly saying, “You idiot, Kieran” which was her way of saying ‘You are completely hopeless, I can’t leave you, you ridiculous blood sucker, not to mention you might stake yourself.’

“Heard the Beatles?” “Duh! God, Kieran, you are so dense!” Imogen laughed, her tired eyes light up, Kieran blushed, Imogen took his hand, smiling.

“You’re a downer, you know”

“Aren’t we all like that? All of us, I mean” Imogen rolled her eyes at Kieran, long hair pulled back from his face.

“You’re so dramatic about the whole disease thing.”

“Disease?”

“That’s what I call it, a disease, we just have to wait for a cure”

Kieran frowned, Imogen was fooling herself, there wasn’t and couldn’t be a cure, ever. But he humored her by saying, “Yeah, yeah, a cure” absently.

When Kieran was done tossing his lunch, Imogen slapped him twice across the face, then kissed the top of his head and refilled his glass with water, then she yawned and left the room, muttering about nutters and retching. Kieran opened his laptop and start to write again, as he felt the lack of ideas and interest creep into his head he closed the laptop and laid back on the bed, hoping for sleep.

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