Rev 1: Tried to smooth out pronoun vs name usage
Rev 2: Made some revisions for fixes and content
Rev 3: More show, less tell, some fixes, and incorporated some of Chris's edit suggestions.
Since she was four years old, Ally had always hated children’s TV shows. She had a deep loathing for the Count on Sesame Street, and later wanted to kill all sing-song dinosaurs, or any puppet that danced. So when confronted by four rotting Teletubbies, it took all her restraint not to beat Laa-Laa senseless with Tinky Winky’s oversized purse. The former had stepped in front of her, pointing to a sign on its screened yellow belly which read, “Television Will Rot Your Brain.”
Po, the red one, bent its head gesturing toward her with its bubble blower antenna. Breaking character it said in a distinctly male voice, “Not a very realistic Tinker Bell costume, Parker. You could have at least gotten the color right.”
Her jaw tightened. “This isn’t Disney you corporate shill.” It pissed her off how much she sounded like her dad. She began to clench and unclench her hands, and was barely able to resist the urge to drag Po toward her by its antenna. Thankfully, the Teletubbies had already swung their attention to Sophie Blake, who had come dressed in a sexy Cookie Monster costume—with blue thigh highs, and those vacant ping pong ball eyes staring out over her bobbed, blond hair.
“Rot your brain, that’s so funny.” Sophie, she noticed, had an unfortunate, horse-like laugh. She’d placed a hand on Ally’s shoulder to steady herself. “You guys are too mean; I think she’s a great Tinker Bell.” She drew the smaller girl toward her into what she probably meant as a reassuring hug. That was it. Ally needed to get the hell out of here. Where was Tyler?
She would have had trouble seeing him in this press of bodies under the best of conditions. It was even harder given that Michaela’s unofficial fan club had shown up. It seemed that she wasn’t too subtle about her love for the undead. Tyler would be all but invisible in the midst of all those black capes, and pale tragic expressions. There were at least six other creatures-of-the-night lurking around her like sad little shadows, as Michaela posed against the chaise arm of a sectional sofa in that cat suit of hers. At least, Tyler hadn’t worn glitter like some of them. It amazed Ally that she could handle them hovering like that, trying to be noticed. It would have made her claustrophobic. Well, Ty would probably fly over here soon enough like a good little bat; she just needed to be patient, and wait for him to find the bait.
She disentangled herself from Sophie, who had started to dance cross-species with Laa-Laa—which, should be illegal even in this backward state—and headed to the food table. After a brief debate between quesadilla and taquito, she settled on the taquito—what was the difference anyway? As she was about to take a bite, her attention shifted past the glampires to a man talking to Michaela, a man who was holding a shovel.
Barely thinking, she hurled the taquito. It hit him squarely in the forehead. She frantically looked around for a weapon. The knives on the table were plastic, and the baseball player across from her was too far away for her to grab his bat in time. She started to lift the punch bowl when Michaela’s startled yell registered, “Dad! Are you all right?” The music came to an abrupt stop. People begin to look around to determine what was happening. Ally dropped the bowl back on the table, about a third of the red punch sloshed over its side to run in rivulets onto the tile floor.
What had she just done? She tried to move in two directions at once, and wound up frozen. Should she grab napkins to clean up the punch, or apologize for flinging appetizers at Michaela’s stunned father? Seeing his confused look made her move toward him. She put a hand on his arm, “Mr. Winters, I am so sorry. I got startled. I didn’t mean—“
“That’s okay, that’s okay dear.” He noticed the punch. “Michaela, could you please get some towels, and we’ll get this wiped up.” She turned and ran through a kitchen alcove.
He chuckled, “I must have looked hungry.”
He reminded her of someone from a breakfast cereal TV ad, and seemed to be taking this all in good humor. Now that she looked closely, she could see that while he was dressed like a gravedigger, it was still just a costume, clearly store-bought, not even as realistic as those her father wore. She let go of a deep breath, and felt her shoulders sag.
Michaela returned with the towels, and gave Ally a lopsided smile shaking her head slightly. Ally started back to the table to get some napkins, but Mr. Winters held up a hand. He had been saying something, but either she had been too relieved to listen, or was having trouble focusing over the now even louder reasserted music. He raised his voice, “Ms. Parker,” Its tone shifted and crackled like dry leaves, “your instincts are sharper than your little primate brain. You need to trust them more.”
She recoiled as the man’s smile resolved into a thin line, his eyes becoming raptor-like, predatory. The costume blurred only to resolve itself into the familiar linen shirt and tweed pants. “You—” her tongue refused to work. How could she have ever thought he was someone else?
“Let’s make this interesting,” he said, lifting the shovel to point its tip at one of the glitter boys, like a great cat separating its prey from the herd. He held the pose and then said, “Murder.” Then in one quick motion, he swung the shovel above his head, only to bring it crashing down with a dull thud against the tile. The music silenced again, as the power flickered, and then died plunging the room into darkness. The cloying scent of talcum and dank sweat filled Ally’s nose. A boy screamed.
At first she thought her eyes were adjusting to the darkness impossibly fast, but that wasn’t it. It was the boy on the ground. The darkness was settling on him like he was a sponge for the night. The glitter shone on his skin like a field of tiny stars. He had stopped screaming, and reached up a hand toward one of his vampire friends, who helped him to his feet. As he stood, he pulled his friend into him savagely, and bit into his neck. The flow of blood was not unlike the contents of the punch bowl, only so wrong. Ally couldn’t turn away.
The new vampire didn’t seem silly now. He dropped the boy he’d been drinking to the ground like a discarded cup. His eyes were embers lighting the area where they were directed, which at the moment was toward Michaela. As he turned away from her, Ally found she could move again. In the gloom, she could make out what she needed. Two steps and a swift grab, and she had it. She turned to see Michaela walking as if in a trance toward the vampire. She could hear his sibilant whisper, “Yesss, come kitty, come—“
“Hey, glitter boy,” Ally said, “count for me.” The baseball bat made a satisfying thunk as it struck the small of his back.
Rev 2: Made some revisions for fixes and content
Rev 3: More show, less tell, some fixes, and incorporated some of Chris's edit suggestions.
Chapter 5
Since she was four years old, Ally had always hated children’s TV shows. She had a deep loathing for the Count on Sesame Street, and later wanted to kill all sing-song dinosaurs, or any puppet that danced. So when confronted by four rotting Teletubbies, it took all her restraint not to beat Laa-Laa senseless with Tinky Winky’s oversized purse. The former had stepped in front of her, pointing to a sign on its screened yellow belly which read, “Television Will Rot Your Brain.”
Po, the red one, bent its head gesturing toward her with its bubble blower antenna. Breaking character it said in a distinctly male voice, “Not a very realistic Tinker Bell costume, Parker. You could have at least gotten the color right.”
Her jaw tightened. “This isn’t Disney you corporate shill.” It pissed her off how much she sounded like her dad. She began to clench and unclench her hands, and was barely able to resist the urge to drag Po toward her by its antenna. Thankfully, the Teletubbies had already swung their attention to Sophie Blake, who had come dressed in a sexy Cookie Monster costume—with blue thigh highs, and those vacant ping pong ball eyes staring out over her bobbed, blond hair.
“Rot your brain, that’s so funny.” Sophie, she noticed, had an unfortunate, horse-like laugh. She’d placed a hand on Ally’s shoulder to steady herself. “You guys are too mean; I think she’s a great Tinker Bell.” She drew the smaller girl toward her into what she probably meant as a reassuring hug. That was it. Ally needed to get the hell out of here. Where was Tyler?
She would have had trouble seeing him in this press of bodies under the best of conditions. It was even harder given that Michaela’s unofficial fan club had shown up. It seemed that she wasn’t too subtle about her love for the undead. Tyler would be all but invisible in the midst of all those black capes, and pale tragic expressions. There were at least six other creatures-of-the-night lurking around her like sad little shadows, as Michaela posed against the chaise arm of a sectional sofa in that cat suit of hers. At least, Tyler hadn’t worn glitter like some of them. It amazed Ally that she could handle them hovering like that, trying to be noticed. It would have made her claustrophobic. Well, Ty would probably fly over here soon enough like a good little bat; she just needed to be patient, and wait for him to find the bait.
She disentangled herself from Sophie, who had started to dance cross-species with Laa-Laa—which, should be illegal even in this backward state—and headed to the food table. After a brief debate between quesadilla and taquito, she settled on the taquito—what was the difference anyway? As she was about to take a bite, her attention shifted past the glampires to a man talking to Michaela, a man who was holding a shovel.
Barely thinking, she hurled the taquito. It hit him squarely in the forehead. She frantically looked around for a weapon. The knives on the table were plastic, and the baseball player across from her was too far away for her to grab his bat in time. She started to lift the punch bowl when Michaela’s startled yell registered, “Dad! Are you all right?” The music came to an abrupt stop. People begin to look around to determine what was happening. Ally dropped the bowl back on the table, about a third of the red punch sloshed over its side to run in rivulets onto the tile floor.
What had she just done? She tried to move in two directions at once, and wound up frozen. Should she grab napkins to clean up the punch, or apologize for flinging appetizers at Michaela’s stunned father? Seeing his confused look made her move toward him. She put a hand on his arm, “Mr. Winters, I am so sorry. I got startled. I didn’t mean—“
“That’s okay, that’s okay dear.” He noticed the punch. “Michaela, could you please get some towels, and we’ll get this wiped up.” She turned and ran through a kitchen alcove.
He chuckled, “I must have looked hungry.”
He reminded her of someone from a breakfast cereal TV ad, and seemed to be taking this all in good humor. Now that she looked closely, she could see that while he was dressed like a gravedigger, it was still just a costume, clearly store-bought, not even as realistic as those her father wore. She let go of a deep breath, and felt her shoulders sag.
Michaela returned with the towels, and gave Ally a lopsided smile shaking her head slightly. Ally started back to the table to get some napkins, but Mr. Winters held up a hand. He had been saying something, but either she had been too relieved to listen, or was having trouble focusing over the now even louder reasserted music. He raised his voice, “Ms. Parker,” Its tone shifted and crackled like dry leaves, “your instincts are sharper than your little primate brain. You need to trust them more.”
She recoiled as the man’s smile resolved into a thin line, his eyes becoming raptor-like, predatory. The costume blurred only to resolve itself into the familiar linen shirt and tweed pants. “You—” her tongue refused to work. How could she have ever thought he was someone else?
“Let’s make this interesting,” he said, lifting the shovel to point its tip at one of the glitter boys, like a great cat separating its prey from the herd. He held the pose and then said, “Murder.” Then in one quick motion, he swung the shovel above his head, only to bring it crashing down with a dull thud against the tile. The music silenced again, as the power flickered, and then died plunging the room into darkness. The cloying scent of talcum and dank sweat filled Ally’s nose. A boy screamed.
At first she thought her eyes were adjusting to the darkness impossibly fast, but that wasn’t it. It was the boy on the ground. The darkness was settling on him like he was a sponge for the night. The glitter shone on his skin like a field of tiny stars. He had stopped screaming, and reached up a hand toward one of his vampire friends, who helped him to his feet. As he stood, he pulled his friend into him savagely, and bit into his neck. The flow of blood was not unlike the contents of the punch bowl, only so wrong. Ally couldn’t turn away.
The new vampire didn’t seem silly now. He dropped the boy he’d been drinking to the ground like a discarded cup. His eyes were embers lighting the area where they were directed, which at the moment was toward Michaela. As he turned away from her, Ally found she could move again. In the gloom, she could make out what she needed. Two steps and a swift grab, and she had it. She turned to see Michaela walking as if in a trance toward the vampire. She could hear his sibilant whisper, “Yesss, come kitty, come—“
“Hey, glitter boy,” Ally said, “count for me.” The baseball bat made a satisfying thunk as it struck the small of his back.
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The secret of poetry is cruelty.--Jon Anderson