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More”Royal Blood” News

Check out our ad in the latest issue of Alaska’s “Coast” magazine!

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Book talk/reading at UAA bookstore. Audio at this link, with apologies since authors should write and not talk. What is speech, after all, but a rough draft?

https://itunes.apple.com/us/itunes-u/guest-authors/id752727886?mt=10

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First Contact

“We had pressed into service a Masara woman, to show us the water, necessity having no law.…She said she only recollected to have been at the fountain once before, and that when she was a child. She was delighted with a present of beads and a handkerchief, and last not least in her estimation, as much dried meat as she could stagger under.” African Hunting and Adventure, William Charles Baldwin, 1863.

  It was That Man who warned us, adding wood to the fire as he did so as if to make his message strong. He had been far from the village and seen them. Some people believed him, knowing that he had told us of the arrival of elephants in the area. Others thought his new tale too wild to accept.

Many of the men listened, probably thinking of the huge animals and the days of feasting when one was caught in a pit.  Such gorges are talked of for ages. Bush flesh is rare for us, usually only to be had when the men chase a lion or other bad animal from a kill. Thanks to a nearby fountain we have enough water save in the driest years, but our food, beyond the few poor things we grow or gather, is more apt to be insect and grub and lizard than red meat.

Most days we eat whatever moves, and find that all of it helps keep us strong. When bringing water we turn over rocks or logs and chew down whatever moves there. Once, when digging into a termite mound, we startled a snake. The men pursued it with sticks, dancing in joy and fear. Finally they pinned its head and ground it into the earth until the body stopped twining.  It was a treat.

In hard times we chewed grasses that even the cows knew had no goodness left in them. I have heard tales of mothers who killed their children rather than see them starve. I have no sons or daughters, but would like to believe that I would carve pieces from myself to keep them alive. It is too easy, though, to say what one would do when the need has not yet come.

Still, That Man had told us the elephants were here. Others dug the pits, and we feasted. Perhaps because of these memories the men were more frightened by his latest warning than we women were.

How could we be afraid, after all, when his words were so odd? He spoke of a group of men who wandered without stop, their hut pulled by a number of lean, gaunt cattle, so different from the sweet fat cows found in larger villages. Some of these were men like ours, but of different tribes, and they were led by grey-skins, covered in strange clothing, who rode upon creatures like zebras, but larger and of different colors. These seemed to be tame animals rather than beasts of the veldt.

That Man said these pale warriors were armed with sticks that threw fire, which could drive it into animals or enemies, killing them at great distances. He said that they were looking for water and were moving toward our village.

We whispered, looking for food in the bush and fetching water from the spring. That Man spoke nonsense, we thought. After all, he was a wanderer and wifeless (at one time he had even pursued me), and surely a man with no woman might have need to lie in order to make himself big.

We were wrong.

The world is not a quiet place. Those with ears to hear will always know birdsong, the brush of breezes through dry grasses, and the occasional calling of animals. All of these are familiar, though, and they will not hide the new.

We first heard a cracking pop, like a large limb broken by wind. It was nothing we knew of, and though far away it carried on the still air. The sound was repeated often, and seemed to be growing nearer. This clearly made the men nervous, and there were fights and yelling, as will break out in times of hardship or long discomfort.

Soon we heard other sounds. The strangers’ hut creaked and groaned as it was drawn along, and this too we could hear though they were far off. As the noise drew closer the men began to go. No one saw That Man leave, but we thought he was among the first. There seemed to be no words among them, each alone ghosted into the brush without comment, and in no time at all only women and children could be found in the village.

Before long, if one climbed a big rock, the strange men could be seen in the distance. That Man had claimed that the riders and their mounts were each a single creature, but it was easy to see, even from afar, that they were not (human legs, though strangely covered, showed clear against the beasts’ sides; we women, at least, are not blind). Still, the sight of men atop such large and swift animals was frightening. The smoke from our fire had clearly given us away, and they came toward us at speed.

Many of us were burdened with children, and those that weren’t were afraid to abandon the village. Instead of running, we hid. We crawled into the dark at the heart of bushes, wedged ourselves into the clefts between rocks, and waited with the trembling silence of huddled things.

It was all for nothing. What the strange warriors could not see their beasts quickly sniffed out, and we were flushed from our hides and hunted. I was among the last, dug so tightly into the brush that my skin was striped with the pale marks of its limbs and thorns. Though I tried to force my heart to quiet, it seemed loud as a drum in my own ears, and I was discovered.

A mounted man stopped next to my hide and spoke. I knew he was trying to talk to me, but his words had no meaning. He tried again, perhaps using a different language, and answered my silence with what could only have been a curse, though the sense of this too was beyond my understanding. As he looked to his companions for advice I broke cover and ran.

I am considered fleet of foot by those who know me, and I feared for my life, running with the speed of the doomed. Dodging like a jackal, my toes digging at the earth each time I turned, I used every rock and bush to elude my pursuer. No matter how fast I ran, or how I cut to the right and left, the beast was faster, and the man atop it seemed to revel in the chase, forcing his mount to follow me this way and that, and always growing nearer.

I ran my hardest, holding no thought but that of escape, but as I broke into the open the animal was with me, and with an almost casual arrogance the man on it caused the creature to lay its long head upon my shoulder, marking my failure. Beaten, I fell upon my back in the dust, raised my arms and spread my legs in surrender. My pursuer was a man, after all, and so I offered what men always want.

Rather than take me, though, he leaned from his beast and dragged me to my feet, throwing his arm out to indicate the now nearby hut. My breath came fast, caught up in coughs from my exertions, as he herded me in that direction.

Twice more I tried to break and run, but each time I was bested more easily. When we finally reached the dwelling it was no longer moving, its strange cattle motionless save the whisking of their tails. The man lifted a foot and knocked me to the ground. I waited there, on my knees and prepared to die, while he loosed something from the wall of the hut and threw a bundle of dried meat at me.

Hunger and opportunity were stronger than my fear, and I tore into the food, desperate to consume as much of it as I could before it was withdrawn. The man who had captured me swung down from his beast and waved one of his companions over. The two of them spoke then, trying again and again while I tore at the meat. In truth I understood enough of what they were saying, as they tried one language after another, to know that their question was simply, “where water?”  I kept this knowledge from my face and continued to force down food, though I thought I could feel my stomach swell with each bite.

There were others captured, including That Man, who had not fled as fast and far as I’d thought. Before long my questioners tired of my ignorance and moved away. I thought of fleeing, but the riches of so much meat confused me. Eventually I simply dragged what was left of it to the weak shade of a nearby bush and settled there, nibbling when I could and watching everything around me. As I did I learned.

Someone, perhaps That Man, was not as stubborn as I.  Our little fountain was found and drained by the thirsty beasts and men. The hut moved off then, further into the bush, and after hesitating I followed, dragging my meat with me.

Rather than beat or kill me, the warriors seemed to accept that I’d joined their party. Soon I learned enough of their words to converse with them, and the ideas of whips and horses and oxen and wheels became clear to me. That Man sometimes provided me with company, and I enjoyed hearing the speech of my village.

I found ways to be helpful, collecting wood and showing my captors where roots lay beneath the earth. I was fed always. It seems they had unlimited supplies of meat, and I grew fat on it.

We moved on, and I knew that behind me the men of my village would have come out of the bush, would be gathered around the fountain, sitting on their heels, their spears ready to defend it against thirsty animals while it refilled. I hoped enough of the women and children had escaped to start over without us.

Some days later our caravan approached another small settlement, and the horsemen set out to catch those who would lead us to the next source of water.

My meat was safely beside me. That Man squatted nearby. I put my hand over my mouth so as not to seem too bold, and laughed to see the villagers’ futile flights.

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“Royal Blood” is in stock at the Anchorage Barnes and Noble. Signing set for Jan. 18th. Does your bookstore have it in stock?

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Soon at a bookstore near you!

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Book Signing

Bruce Woods will be signing copies of his novel, "Royal Blood," at the Anchorage, AK Barnes and Noble. 200 E. Northern Lights Blvd., on January 14th, starting at 2:00 p.m. See you there!

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New Publication Date

Knox Robinson is changing distributors, and has had to push the end-of-year books into 2016 as a result. I should have a date in the next few months, and will of course announce it here. Be patient, and enjoy the free stories here until then!

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Advance Review Copies ready for distribution!

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Advanced Review Copies are here

OK, this is looking real, now. The official publication date is still late October. All info will be posted here when it happens!

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Swan Song

Blatantly bad decisions tend to lead to predictably unfortunate outcomes, while a moment of recklessness can spiral into complications never anticipated. But allow me to elucidate.

An African expedition I’d undertaken on behalf of Lady of the City Ellen Terry (ageless theater queen and chief among London’s vampires) had left me a wealthy woman by almost any standards, but the complications of intercontinental travel required that I tarry awhile in London before returning home to put those funds to work.  The many challenges I’d been forced to confront during that excursion had also left me a less cautious creature, and more inclined to act as I saw fit and let the consequences fall where they may. 

Therefore, where I had previously kept tight rein on my appetites in deference to the above-mentioned Lady (to the point of subsisting on preserved blood for a time, the better to keep my vampiric nature well hidden), I found myself actively hunting more often than not, and counting upon my skill and intelligence to prevent any trail of clues that might inflame the local populace, be they mortal or kin. These twin virtues, I was to find, would prove woefully inadequate.

Knowing that I would have to divest myself of my beloved Horace-Wilkershire Coilcycle before returning to America, I made full use of this mode of transportation as my days in England waned, whispering in spring-powered speed and silence through the streets and alleyways of old London town in search of sustenance or entertainment or both.

It was early of an evening on one such outing, while I rolled slowly down a network of the narrower of urban passages (grateful for the rear fender that protected my raiment from the worst of the unmentionables flung up by my spinning tire), when I spied an individual moving with craft and caution from one patch of darkness to the next. I did not even then pretend, as some of my Kind do, to limit my depredations to the criminal class, but the opportunity to enhance my feeding with the added spice that my actions might benefit a poor and benighted humanity appealed to me nonetheless.

I tracked my prey for some time, the near silence of the Coilcycle no little advantage. Though I did not witness him (for the individual proved to be male) indulging in any crime, his furtive demeanor convinced me that this was only a matter of time before he committed such an infraction. I even allowed myself to fantasize that it was old Springheel Jack himself that I followed, and that I would fall upon him in righteous vengeance for all the poor Dollymops and Bunters who had screamed beneath his blade.

With my anticipation thus heightened, then, I waited until his perambulations took us to a shop district, the storefronts gone dark for the night, where witnesses were apt to be absent or, for their own reasons, remain silent. There, setting my mechanical steep upon its kickstand beneath a burned-out gaslight with only the slightest squeal of metal on metal, I took up the chase afoot. When the time seemed right I gathered myself for the leap that I was sure would end with his quick and silent demise and my eagerly sought reward, and attacked.

Whilst still in midair I realized my error, for he turned with speed no less than mine and, almost casually, dashed me to the ground and perched atop me, revealing a strength against which my struggles proved fruitless. “This ‘ere’s my patch, chicken,” he whispered, his voice slurred by his own erect teeth. “Gi’ me one reason why I shouldn’ rip yer pretty ‘ead off ‘ere and now.”

I struggled to keep panic from my voice, as I knew that the slightest sign of subservience could inflame the passions of even the best of men, a company I feared my assailant was neither familiar with nor welcome among. “My apologies,” I managed, my face and tinted glasses wet with alley filth and my voice no doubt tainted by it as well. “I’m a foreigner, an American, here at the Lady’s leave. If I’ve wandered too far afield it is out of error and not presumption.”

“’At’s a pretty speech, ‘at is,” he replied, in no manner easing the pressure that kept me pinned. “Maybe we should ‘ave a talk with ‘er ‘ighness, yer know, jist to make sure yer on the up an’ up?”

I thought rapidly. It’s true that Lady Terry had been quite complimentary regarding my recent adventure, and had indeed professed herself fond of me. On the other hand I had no wish to feel the sharp side of her tongue, and my carelessness had left me clearly in the wrong.

“Certainly,” I said, “but might we first stop off at my flat? I have no wish to present myself to the Lady in such a soiled state.” Some individuals cast off all interest in matters carnal with the change; others (like me) find those appetites in no way diminished. I knew not what my adversary’s proclivities were, but allowed a bit of the coquette into my voice, however inappropriate to my circumstances, as I was not willing to leave such a shot unfired.

At first he made no response, and I prepared myself for what would be an unequal and likely brief struggle; but then he stood, his weight off me seemingly without recourse to any manipulation of limbs, as if he had levitated rather than mechanically rising.

“Tha’ we’ll do then,” he said. “I’ve a wonderin’ ‘bout wha’ sor’ of posh lodgin’s yer kin’ might be put up in. Yer kin even ride yer li’l play-toy, but don’ git to any funny business. I kin go ever as fast as it kin when the spirit moves me.” And so it proved. I made no effort to flee once astride my Coilcycle, but the needs of traffic occasionally did force me to accelerate. Despite this, whenever I turned to study the streets around me I unfailingly spotted my enemy, often appearing to loiter in a doorway as if mocking my speed.

In this manner we soon arrived at my building. After securing the Coilcycle, I led my adversary to the steam-powered elevator, little more than a cage made elegant with brass filigree. I confess to some embarrassment as I showed him in and locked the door behind us. The apartment, selected by the Lady herself, was far grander than those I was accustomed to, including even a piano for which I had little talent and less use.

His response reinforced those trepidations nicely.

“Cor, a flash crib an’ tha’s a fact!” He said, wandering the rooms and taking note of the paintings on the wall (mostly pastorals and Reubenesque nudes) and the somewhat worn but elegant furniture. “’M wonderin’ if a swell Yank bird like you migh’ be willin’ ta  par’ with a bi’ of the ol’ push to spare ‘erself any munge wi’ Milady?

I’ve noted elsewhere that our Kind seem to have a knack for language, and though his accent was thick I was able to worry out the sense of most of his words by context. I could certainly afford to buy him off without depleting my new-found riches overmuch, but there was a matter of pride at stake as well; so I pretended to contemplate his overture while scrabbling mightily for a plan.

“That would perhaps save both of us from inconvenience,” I said, still maintaining the illusion that I had little concern about being brought up before Ellen Terry. “Perhaps we can discuss it in detail once I change out of this besmirched costume. Whilst I do you might wish to investigate the tub in the lavatory. It is quite the latest thing, and produces hot water at the spigot on demand!”

This ruse proved effective. Though the Kin need bathe more rarely than mortals, not being subject to such insults as perspiration, London is a dirty town, and our skin is as wont to be contaminated by its surroundings as any. Bathing, as well, is for most a laborious chore, and I hoped the novelty of a quick and almost effortless washing-up might buy me a bit of time.

I made short work of disrobing and donning a clean set of clothing in order to take maximum advantage of such a godsend, and was rewarded, as I pulled on a starched blouse, by the sound of water splashing upon porcelain. A plan slowly coming to mind, I made myself busy in the main room, even plucking upon the piano a few times to calm any apprehensions he might have had. I was barely finished with my preparations when I heard his voice calling from the bath.

“Oy, lovey,” he said, “’ere’s a spot on me back I can’ reach. Wha’  say you soap ‘er up for me?”

I had banked on this and, consequently, chosen clothing that, though dark in color and not overtly provocative, was still casual in nature and more suited to the intimacies of home life than the promenade of the streets. Thus clad I entered the bathroom and quickly realized, by the evidence of the engorged head of his manhood peering at me above the bubbles he’d indulged in, that my “guest” was counting upon a bit of amorous sport to sweeten the monetary reward he now expected.

I pretended to ignore his arousal and, rolling up my sleeves, positioned myself at the head of the tub and proceeded to rub his shoulders in preparation for undertaking the scrubbing he had requested. This produced a satisfactory result, and soon he let his chin fall to his breast the better to facilitate my efforts.

I made to reach for the soap, giving my hands an excuse to leave his body, and retrieved a length of fine wire from beneath my clothing, its ends each in turn wrapped around a china Leda and her avian rapist, a pairing that had previously been frozen in eternal foreplay upon the black enamel of the piano top. As he raised his chin to urge me to new efforts, I whipped the fine cable around his neck, my arms crossed behind his head, and--knees against the edge of the tub--reared back with all my strength.

The Kin may be long-lived, but their flesh is no more impervious to outrage than any mortal’s, and I had the satisfaction of feeling the fine wire cut into his throat like a knife through cheese. He struggled, oh violently, clawing back for my hands that remained just beyond his reach, but all of my not inconsiderable strength held his head against the fixtures of the tub, the garrote sawing inexorably; and his blood sprayed forth, reaching almost to the far end of the tub but, thankfully, spilling little beyond either side.

The loss of vitae weakened him quickly, and tempted me madly in my peckish state, but I resisted the latter distraction and redoubled my efforts,  Soon I felt the wire stopped by bone, but with a continual sawing motion, pulling now up and now down on the mythic figurines, I eventually felt it pop between the vertebrae and with one final effort, my shoulders aching from it, worked the wire though his spine and quite separated his head from his body.

This plunged forward into the tub, the be-crimsoned water thickening like a sauce bubbling around a roué. There had been, as I’d anticipated, no sound save his splashing, as the wire in its first effort had so opened his throat as to effectively separate his lungs from his vocal chords. I confess I sat on the floor for a moment, the dark hue of my clothing hiding whatever spray it had endured.  I had of course killed in the past, but this premeditated murder of one of my own Kind was a step further, and I was some seconds in mastering my emotions as a result.

It being the wee hours of the morning, I was not observed, once I’d recovered myself, in depositing the body some blocks from my flat. Contrary to myth (which, though making for chilling tales, is also generally quite unscientific), the corpse did not dissolve into dust upon the loss of its motivating principle, but only reposed as inert and unexceptional as any mortal husk.

Perhaps the medical geniuses of the day might have been able to learn something of our Kind from the remains had they conducted a thorough examination, but so common were bodies to the streets of London (even those whose heads were some distance from their trunks), that I assumed I had little to fear from its discovery, all the more so as my steamship was scheduled to sail only a few days hence.

The bathtub, as I’d planned, greatly facilitated what tidying up was required in my apartment. The length of wire and figurines, the latter grooved and dusted as a result of my efforts , were simply separated and discarded in disparate locations.

And if one note on the piano was left dead, well, that would be a problem for a future, and more musically inclined, tenant.

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A Personal Bestiary

Oh my, if I were to feed from you it might allow you to experience some fraction of the pleasures I find in both taking nourishment or in the more plebeian forms of lovemaking, but of course you would not remember.

*                                                      *                                                 *

It is unlikely that anyone will ever read this. In fact, if you are perusing these pages, and you’re not one of the Kin (“vampires” to the uninitiated), it is almost certain that there’s either been some sort of terrible mistake or that I (Miss Paulette Monot) have decided to take a mortal lover.

The latter is perhaps more likely.

Lucky you.

No, the goal of this exercise is not publication, but rather to help me to organize my thoughts by chaining them, word by word, to the iron rings of print upon a page. (The latter is merely figurative at the moment, as I am recording these thoughts on my Tessier-Ashpool Listening Device for later transcription.). It has occurred to me that, given the unspecified span of years that lie ahead of me, there might come a day when the existence of the Kin is more widely known among the warm; or (perhaps more likely, though the thought does little more than amuse me at the moment) that I might take a human inamorata into my confidence because I am moved to consider him or her more than a temporary source of pleasure or sustenance, to be used and discarded with memory impaired.

Indeed, those who do not think us the mere inflammations of an overactive imagination are all too likely to be influenced by those very imaginings, in the form of folktales and the fantastic literature of the day. Thus a man or woman who might suspect our existence is equally likely to be burdened by any number of misconceptions which, though admittedly colorful, would hinder any sort of meaningful meeting of the minds.

Thus this effort to disabuse misinformation and demystify mythology. It is my aim to clarify the common misconceptions concerning my Kind in general and myself in particular. I will not, of course, tell all; for a woman without secrets is like a day without hope, and something to be endured rather than experienced.

To begin with perhaps the most pointed revelation; we are not one and all bloodthirsty killers. Oh we are bloodthirsty to be sure, but few are the Kin who leave a trail of corpses behind them. This would be an unsustainable use of a finite resource, and such activity would almost certainly lead to censure from above, a form of discipline that is almost invariably terminal.

It is a poor example of the Kin who cannot produce some degree of Enchantment with his or her naked eyes. Even I, a relative neophyte as I write this, have learned the simple tricks of capturing the will of my intendeds and manipulating their memories. We are, it would be fair to say, responsible for many of your lost hours and weekends. If you awaken weak and feeling poorly, with a span of time fleeing your grasping mind like the winding sheets of a vanishing dream, it may indeed be to drink or drug that you owe your condition. On the other hand, though, you might have provided food and pleasure to a creature who does not wish to be remembered.

If that is the case, you should know that your “monster” was, as I am, a creation of biology and not a thing of magic. I leave it to the scientists among us (Kin and warm) to eventually parse out the mechanisms of Kindred transformation, but make no mistake about it, I am as much a thing of flesh as you are. Oh, I might be cooler to the touch (even in my most intimate areas), but I can no more transform myself into a cloud of mist or a colony of bats than a cat can become a canary.

My flesh is also subject to the myriad indignities that haunt all things of meat. It can be cut or pierced, bludgeoned or broken. It can, however, also more readily and rapidly heal itself of such injuries (unless the head be separated from the body), and grants me speed and strength quite out of line with my feminine (and even frail) appearance. My senses are likewise enhanced; I can see in the dark far better than a mortal, and discern another of my Kind by virtue of the grace of his or her movement. The faculties of scent and hearing are also more finely developed in our Kind than among the warm. And the sense of touch? Oh my, if I were to feed from you it might allow you to experience some fraction of the pleasures I find in both taking nourishment or in the more plebeian forms of lovemaking, but of course you would not remember.

Anyone who has seen me, dressed and primped for the town, would surely know that my physical form is not invisible to mirrors, nor I assure you are the Kind immune to the little capture that is the science of photography. The only caveat to this is that those parts of me that would grow in a mortal, my hair and nails specifically, are frozen at the length they enjoyed at the time of my making. Thus it would be futile for me to cut my locks in order to attempt to present myself as masculine; they would grow back in a thrice. There are wigs and hats, however, that can be put into service should such subterfuge beckon.

The question of age seems to be among the most titillating to those who believe in us, since we remain in appearance the person that we were at the moment of our transformation. I have often wondered, should I ever reveal myself to a mortal lover, whether he or she would be horrified at my span of years or quietly disappointed that I am not a creature of greater antiquity. I have heard mortals of a certain age maintain that they wake every morning thinking they are in their early twenties until they chance to look into a mirror. Suffice to say I don’t share that daily disillusionment.

Agelessness is not, of course, without its disadvantages. And it is true that more of our number likely fall to ennui than ever succumb to decapitation. (And don’t get me started on stakes. Whether made of wood or silver or the sharpened thighbone of the true Christ, they can do no more than make a hole, which begins to heal as soon as they are withdrawn. Of course if they are not or cannot be removed, well, that is another matter entirely)

Even a welcomed life that is without illness or degeneration must eventually pall, though, and thus the older amongst the Kin continually seek to reignite their interest with new passions and preoccupations. This is the reason, I presume (being far from such a hoary state myself) for the preponderance of polyglots amongst our elders, and the number of those immersed in the deepest rats’ nests of philosophy.

There are also some few who, waking to a vampiric world, are quite overwhelmed by sensation and end themselves. This is not overly common, and is usually the fault of the Kin responsible for the transformation of such an inappropriate recipient. I consider this similar to the tragedy of still-birth among the living, for his or her first days in the world clearly function as the womb of the newly-made Kin.

An attentive reader (if anyone were ever to read this) or listener (if I am even now whispering these words, my breath strangely chill, into your willing ear) would have noticed that I use both genders when referring to matters romantic. I am tempted to claim eldritch wisdom, and maintain that the passage of ages has taught me to be so catholic in my tastes. The truth is, however, that I was so even before my making. I have always been greedy for pleasure, and never saw the wisdom of halving my opportunities for such joy in order to serve an arbitrary societal prohibition. So if I am even now pouring this verbal hemlock into the shell of your ear, be aware that, should he or she be comely, I would as willingly do so to your brother or sister as to you.

Should that be the case, you might be reassured to know that, even if our lovemaking included the refined pleasure of my feeding, you will not as a result become as I am. In order to make another like me I would have to drain my lover to the point of death and, just as the blood-starved heart stuttered toward a final stopping, inoculate him or her with the gift of my own essence.

This is a process carefully controlled by the Kin. In fact, the creation of another willy-nilly is our strongest prohibition. It is only our small numbers that protect us from discovery, and such misbegotten offspring are generally summarily eliminated for the great good. (I am an exception to this rule, my making both accidental and unasked for, and only owe my survival to the intercession of Lady Ellen Terry and the wealth to which she led me; which even among the Kin serves as a megaphone to amplify one’s voice when pleading a cause.)

Finally, though perhaps this does not need to be said, I do subsist upon human blood, and though I would never turn down the opportunity to feed upon the criminal classes, I do not pretend to limit myself to such prey. There are members of the Kin who do maintain this sort of self-righteous Epicureanism, even as there are those who claim to exist upon a diet of animal blood (which will sustain one but lacks in both flavor and satisfaction). Such affectations are to our Kind as vegetarianism and veganism are among mortals; generally accepted as morally superior but more often professed than actually practiced.

So there it is, certainly not everything one might need to know about the Kin, but just as assuredly everything I would wish to communicate. Should you indeed be hearing this from me, know yourself to be fortunate indeed, and savor whatever time we have together. For as surely as I must believe that I love you at the moment, it is just as certain that I will eventually grow bored, and this knowledge (which cannot be shared without risking charges of madness) will be your only keepsake.

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Meet Paulette Monot

When one of her paramours proved to be more than human, she was shocked but pragmatic.

She didn’t want to be a vampire.

 In the closing years of the 19th century, Paulette Monot (the surname is pronounced “muh-no,” a remnant of her French heritage) was a Thoroughly Modern twenty-two year old, recently graduated from one of the few colleges available to her gender, and embarking upon a single life in Manhattan.

Petite in stature (she prefers the description “neatly made), she was blessed with blond curls and hypnotic blue eyes (which she was later to hide behind tinted lenses), and a figure fit to bring out the best of whatever the fickle winds of fashion blew her way. She was working at an entry level position in a publishing house when it happened, a job that she had taken at least in part because it gave her access to levels of urban society that might otherwise have been above her.

One of her upper-crust lovers just went a bit too far. Paulette’s proud modernity expressed itself in, among other ways, a rather open minded attitude towards sex. She enjoyed it, and was happy to get as much of it as she wished, particularly if it led to presents and nights on the town that she couldn’t otherwise afford.

So when one of her paramours proved to be more than human, she was shocked but pragmatic. He was wealthy, and the pleasure he gave her was exceptional. Obtaining his promise that he would not attempt to make her like him, she continued the relationship.

The blood-feed is itself a formidable engine of delicious sensations for both involved, though, and it began to play an ever greater role in their dalliances. One night he took a bit too much, and left her weak with loss. It was only an unfortunate happenstance that a compatriot of his, a creature older than he and crueler, chose that night to stop by in order to inspect his friend’s little plaything. When he finished with Paulette she was too far gone to recover, and it was only an accidental contact with a bit of her lover’s blood that changed the girl forever.

She would never be able to decide what irked her more; that this most singular event in her life was the result of mere chance, or that the blood that made her was the weaker of the two. She was a practical girl, however, and the advantages of her newly acquired state were immediately clear to her. No longer human but not quite yet what she would eventually become, Paulette left America for England, ultimately to visit Africa and China, on a distinctively vampiric journey of self-discovery.

She is ageless, but you can watch her come of age. The first Paulette Monot novel, Royal Blood, will be published by Knox Robinson Press (http://www.knoxrobinsonpublishing.com/) in the fall of 2015. See you then!

[brucewoods-blog]

New Life for the Undead

…the fact that the titular lovers are vampires seems less important than who they are.

I had to wait more than a year to see Jim Jarmusch’s Only Lovers Left Alive. A small item in a British film magazine first alerted me to the movie, saying little more than that it was to center upon a pair of vampires, to be played by Tom Hiddleston and Tilda Swinton, and be helmed by the director of Down by Law, Dead Man, and so many other quietly thoughtful films. As a fan of all things vampiric (well, almost all) and of both of the actors and Jarmusch himself, I was beyond excited.

I followed the film’s triumphant progress through Cannes and other festivals online, but with a growing unease. I live in Anchorage, Alaska, not exactly a hotbed of independent film enthusiasts, and there was no guarantee that Lovers would ever appear on the big screen in my town.  So I did what I could. I pestered the local dinner cinema, the most likely house to host a film with limited release, and doggedly searched the web for any hints of local showings.

Late last winter I finally found mention of a future showing.  Hopeful but cautious (it would not have been the first time schedules changed between initial prediction and actual showing), I marked my calendar and practiced patience. In mid-May I was rewarded.

I suppose I should say up front that anyone who’s not a fan of Jarmusch’s brand of sly, slow and cerebral filmmaking will find little to love in this movie. This is a subtle take on the vampire trope (indeed the V-word is never heard during the film’s two hours). And though many of the usual elements of undead mythology are present, from fangs and blood drinking (though usually from delicate and elegant decanters; a bite on the neck being “so fucking 15th century”) to the need to be invited before crossing a threshold (which is here more of a mannered formality than a hard and fast rule), the fact that the titular lovers are vampires seems less important than who they are.

Hiddleston and Swinton are perfectly cast, thin, elegant, beautiful and seemingly refined by the abrasion of passing years. They are wed but live apart (they have, after all, all the time in the world); he in an all but abandoned coyote-ridden neighborhood in Detroit and she in an apartment in Tangiers. Hiddleston’s Adam is a musician apparently hiding from fame, and making melancholy music on dated analog equipment for nobody’s ears but his own. Tilda’s Eve fills her nights with feasts of literature. Apparently an older creature than her husband, she is also far more at ease with the relentless passage of time and the deplorable catastrophes that the humans (called zombies by the couple) regularly inflict upon themselves.

Adam’s inability to accept the changing world as graciously as does his bride starts the action of the movie, which is further moved along by the arrival of Eve’s reckless sister Ava soon after the former arrives in Detroit to soothe her suicidal lover. To say more would perhaps give too much away, and would be of limited value, as this is not a film driven by plot as much as it is by mood and ideas.

Both of the latter are present in force. Lovers is a sumptuous movie to look at (it all takes place at night, of course), and the soundtrack is as seductive as the photography is beautiful. Love, art, science, and loyalty are among the themes explored with languid precision. But perhaps it is time itself that is at the heart of the film.Though hundreds of years old, Adam seems to serve as the stand in for the viewer, who feels battered and betrayed by a world that is not too much with us, but too much gone.

And just as he does, we can take comfort in Eve’s quiet wisdom, and in the belief that simply enjoying such beauty as there is, wherever we might find it, is antidote enough for any sort of Weltschmerz.  I’ll likely have to wait a good long while before I encounter another movie as wise and lovely as this one, but I’m thankful that I’ll have it to sustain me while I do.

[brucewoods-blog]

The Opiate of the Despoiled Page

…it’s easier to edit one’s own text, no matter how slapdash it might be, than anyone else’s.

I hate writing, but I’m addicted to having written.  I think that’s why I’m seldom incapacitated by writer’s block.  I take my guidance from what racing cyclists say about tackling massive climbs; “you go fast so you can stop sooner.” 

I spent most of my career in magazine journalism, too, and thus have been well paper-trained by decades of deadlines. And though Douglas Adams claimed that he enjoyed deadlines because he liked “the whooshing sound they make when they pass by,” he earned that self-indulgence by being a comic genius and a national treasure. Such nonchalance wouldn’t go far in an industry that‘s driven by schedules that would crush Sisyphus and populated by armies of wordsmiths eager to climb the next rung of the ladder should the person above them falter.

I also suspect that the editing I did during those years had more influence on my general state of un-blocked-ness than the reams of nonfiction I cranked out over the same period. The easiest way to edit, you see (though far from the best), is to try to make whatever piece of copy you’re working on read as if you wrote it. It stands to reason, then, that it’s easier to edit one’s own text, no matter how slapdash it might be, than anyone else’s.

So I’m confident that, as long as I can get something, anything, down on the page, I’ll have a far more enjoyable  time fixing it than I did when creating it out of whole cloth.  And once I manage to force myself to sit down and write that’s exactly what I do; I charge ahead blindly until I either build up enough momentum for inspiration to take a hand or simply bumble and struggle my way through my quota  of words for the day. In either case I find that editing that work at the start of the next session is relatively painless and eases me back into the world, voice, and style of the piece at hand.

You’ll notice, of course, that I refer above to the occasional difficulty of forcing myself to write. To my mind this is quite separate from writer’s block, as it involves not wanting to write rather than being unable to.  There are times when virtually anything (from taking a shower to relentlessly checking email to changing the cats’ litter to getting a root canal) seems preferable to facing a cold keyboard without the inner fire of inspiration. As I said at the beginning of this blog, writing is seldom enjoyable for me. It is, however,  never something that can’t be done, and at its worst is merely something that must be.

And once the words are there, fixing them is almost fun.