Archive for August, 2009

Kommandante Kyla

And so the year 2083, came to pass. A shroud of chaos, hopelessness and despair had befallen mankind. Societal paradigms shifted to the crackling tune of broken vertebrae.

You see, in 2053 a rogue military research scientist Dr. Aven carried out an ill fated clandestine operation in an underground laboratory rumored to be located somewhere under Rochester, NY. Aven obsessed with James O’Barr’s comic and subsequent 1994 movie, The Crow, sought to genetically engineer a race of humanoids born with ghostly pallor, a psychic mind link to corvids and an infinite lifespan. He experimented with unwilling participants harvested from a local nocturnal hot spot. The captive hosts were injected with a mutagenic Corvax virus.  Aven hoped that exposure to his viral creation would reconfigure the DNA of the test subjects at hand. It did. He didn’t factor in unpleasant side effects such as a rabid affinity for questionable wardrobe choices and voracity for human flesh that came as a result of altering the host’s genetic code.

Disaster struck when research specimens were accidentally released into the general populace, which slowly caused a worldwide epidemic that claimed millions of lives and decline of good taste.

Civilized society collapsed into barbarity, cities crumbled into dust and famine spread through all lands.  Hordes of cannibal mutants (Failus stylus) lurked in the bowels of derelict buildings. Recognizable by their mousy brown hair highlighted by strands of bright yellow and black caution tape which had been haphazardly tied in as well as clumps of dirty neon fur strapped to their weathered footwear of inferior quality.  Feasting upon anyone who did not exhibit likewise physical characteristics, wanton tribes of poorly outfitted man eating savages proved to be a true plague upon the continuously dwindling group of survivors.

With time small cells of Fashionista Resistance began to form. A valiant and highly esteemed resistance fighter known exclusively by her code name, Kommandante Kyla, managed to unify the dispersed local leaders and form a centralized, highly secretive organization that came to be known as Division LS. Spearheading the rebellion against bloodthirsty apparel challenged predators, this fierce and fearless warrior takes no prisoners or on off the battlefield.

She shall know no rest, no peace and no love until the last yarn hair fall has been obliterated from existence and the last flesh forager has perished.

Until that day comes she shall fight in the frontlines for fashion’s sake.

Your style mission should you choose to accept it:

Division LS I Schultz’s Stretch Poplin Long Sleeved Snap Up Top in the green/blood colorway is an essential uniform staple for battle ready beauties everywhere. Pair with a camouflage underbust corset to protect your precious innards from the teeth of hungry zombies who are always far beyond eager to snack on your intestines.

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Iron cross armband cannibalized from Achtung Playtime Chick’s Militia Shirt in the candy apple red/black colorway shows your opponents that you mean business. At least when it comes to the fine art of obsessively accessorizing your deliciously dangerous military garb.

If succumbing to loss in battle appears to be imminent it is still one’s duty to leave a sharply dressed corpse in the wake of an untimely demise. Under Kommandante Kyla’s “Death Before Fashion Dishonor Act of 2080”, female soldiers of the Fashionista Resistance must attire themselves in Division LS I Servitude Skirt in the blood/green colorway to strike the perfect balance of fetish and utilitarian chic.

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Black platform boots of epic proportions cause one to project the illusion of greater stature, which has been proven to be a successful enemy intimidation maneuver.

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For  Fall Out Shelter Chic Falls:

-  Throw out all your yarn falls. This is non negotiable.

-  Gather your hair into a high ponytail on top of your head. This is imperative. Nothing is sadder than a limp hair fall just chillin’ near the base of your skull, because you confused  the “tie my hair back before I go to the gym” ponytail with “I need to support a pound of plastic shit on top of my head” ponytail.

- Twist hair into a bun(think Princess Leia).

-  Pin the shit out of the above mentioned bun with bobby pins. When you think you’ve pinned it enough, add 10 more pins.

-   Lean forward.

-   Grab the fall by the lace that is attached to it’s base and proceed to wrap said lace around the bottom of the bun.

-  Pin it down some more.

-  Throw your head back.

-  Add more pins for good measure.

- Grab a loose dread and wrap around the base of the now fall covered bun in order to hide the tell tale pins.

- Sneak in a few more covert pins to secure the dread you just wrapped around the whole contraption.

Think your hair can withstand a night of oontz oontz?

Let’s see, shall we?

Step 1: Put on Feindflug

Step 2: Punch and kick like an idiot with all your might for the duration of the track. You can actually pretend that this makes you look cool.

If your hair is still in the same spot it was in 5 minutes ago, you’re good to go. If it migrated then you clearly didn’t listen to me and didn’t pin your fall within every inch of it’s life like I instructed you to do in the first place. DO NOT PASS GO, DO NOT COLLECT $200.

And now for a Lethal Style PSA:

CAUTION TAPE IS A STRETCHY, PORTABLE WARNING SIGN CREATED TO PREVENT ONE FROM ACCESSING AREAS THAT CAN PROVE THEMSELVES TO BE POTENTIALLY HAZARDOUS. IT IS NOT MEANT TO BE WORN IN YOUR HAIR.

Liven up the gloomiest of gloomy  post apocalyptic landscapes with daring greenish gold lids and bold burgundy lips! Matching your lipstick to your epaulets being an utmost necessity.

General Prep Work

You will need:

Moisturizer ,Primer, Concealer, Liquid Foundation, Foundation Brush, Translucent Powder, Powder brush, Eyeshadow primer

Wash your face with a cleanser formulated especially for your skin type. Rinse thoroughly and pat dry with a soft cloth. Prep your skin with moisturizer before applying concealer in order to ensure a smoother, flake free application.  Before proceeding any further allow your skin to properly absorb the moisturizer. This should take about 10 minutes. Since foundation worn alone often has a nasty habit of settling in the fine lines around your mouth, near your eyes and on your forehead, I highly recommend using a primer after you’ve moisturized your face. Utilizing a small amount of primer helps to fill in unflattering expression lines, pores and scars, thus allowing foundation to actually do its job! Nix blemishes and skin discoloration by gently patting concealer over the trouble area. Follow by blending with your ring finger.

Apply a liquid foundation that best matches your skin tone to your face and neck with a foundation brush (A full dome shaped brush works beautifully). Start by applying small dots in the center of your face and then moving outward]. Set everything in place by finishing off with a thin coat of translucent powder.  Use a full, round shaped powder brush for optimal results.

Prep your lids with eyeshadow primer, whose job is to neutralize the colour of your lids which in turn makes for brighter more vibrant shadow. It also prevents said shadow from creasing.

Eyes:

You will need:

Shimmering emerald green eyeshdow,  Frosted gold eyeshadow, Pearly beige eyeshadow, Small fluffy eyeshadow brush, Blending brush, Eyelash curler, Black mascara

Greens look simply stunning on blondes! Using a blending brush add a generous helping of shimmering emerald green eyeshadow to the outer crease  of your eye and bring it down to the outer corner of your eyelid. Your meticulous creation should be in the shape of the letter “V”. I always say that if you shave and draw your brows on you can extend the shadow past your crease and onto the lower part of your browbone, since you obviously have more room to work with. Note: This does not work for everyone, but feel free to experiment! Clean your blending brush. Starting at the inner corner of your eyelid swipe some frosted gold eyeshadow outward toward the “outer V” where the shimmering emerald green eyeshadow sits.  See Figure 1.

Figure 1

Blend both shades into each other at their meeting point. When you’re done, the outer part of your eyelid (and some of your browbone if you’re eyebrowless) should be shimmery shade of emerald green, while the inner part should be a frosty gold color. Light shimmery shadows placed directly under the eyebrow’s arch really help to bring your whole eye makeup together. So yet again clean that blending brush and after you’ve done so, highlight your browbone with pearly beige eyeshadow, which should be placed directly under your eyebrows[regardless if they’re fake or natural]. Blend the pearly beige eyeshadow into the two colors that you’ve blended into your lid and crease.  Namely the shimmering emerald green and the frosted gold. See Figure 2.

Figure 2

For a sexy, fresh alternative to tired black eyeliner, apply the same shimmering emerald green eyeshadow you used on the outer “V” of your eye to your lower lashline using a small fluffy eyeshadow brush. Start at the outer corner of your eye, slowly making your way toward the inner corner. Curl your eyelashes with an eyelash curler and top off with 2 coats of black mascara.

Face:

You will need:

Blush brush, Pink blush, Bronzer

For hot curiously sharp cheekbone action, contouring is in order! Swipe some pressed bronzer onto your blush brush. Starting mid-cheek, going towards your ear apply the bronzer into the hollows of your cheeks using short, up-and-down vertical strokes.  As I’ve mentioned in the previous editions of Lethal Style, darker shades have the tendency to give you those coveted slightly gaunt cheekbones, since they give the illusion of the hollows of your cheeks receding. Using the same technique add pink blush to the apples of your cheeks, which will cause them to protrude. Make sure to blend it well in order to avoid harsh lines which can make your face look tacky and contrived.

Lips:

You will need:

Berry colored lip liner, Burgundy crème lipstick

Use a berry colored lip liner to fill in your lips starting at the center of your natural lip line and moving toward the outer corners. This will keep your lipstick where it should be. Burgundy lipstick that matches the cuffs and epaulets of your sleek Division LS I shirt perfectly? Yes, fucking please!  Beginning in the center of your upper lip gently press the tube into the flesh of your lip and then proceed to roll it over the entire top lip area, working toward the edges. Repeat the process on your bottom lip. See Figure 3.

Being spotted with lipstick on your teeth is considered a major beauty blunder! Prevent potential slippage by placing a finger in your mouth, closing your lips around it and then removing said finger. This will remove any excess lip junk.

Nails:

You will need:

Black nail polish (which you really ought to know how to apply lest you want thine goth card revoked)

Nails are painted an obligatory black to conceal dried mutant blood under your fingernails.

Soldier on, Kommandante Kyla, soldier on!

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Credits:

Photography:

Aaron Kondziela

http://aaronkondziela.com

Model:

Meagan Kyla

http://www.modelmayhem.com/1004843

Makeup & Styling

Vanity Kills

http://www.modelmayhem.com/vanitykills

Location:

Buffalo Central Terminal

http://buffalocentralterminal.org

<3

Vanity Kills

There is little we love more than beautifully executed photography. When the artist masters the subject, composition, lighting, mood, and all the little nuanced intangibles, there’s a wonderful magic in it. This is why we occasionally shine a spotlight on emerging artists whose work we love and want to share with everyone.

You may remember Saida Inkeri’s work from our photo contests, back in the day. Her eye for a great photo stood out then, with great shots like her self-portrait in Teach Hit Me with a Ruler. Her post work in photoshop was also apparent, especially in her Summer submission. We’ve kept an eye out for her and are so glad we did. Her recent work shows a fatastic gift for visual storytelling, with exceptional beauty.

When I asked Inkeri whether she would like to be featured here, she sent me an in-depth and lovely letter about her photography, inspirations, and thoughts about the process of creativity. It really would be a crime to edit it down, so I am keeping the whole thing intact for everyone to appreciate the thought that goes into her process.

You can view more of Inkeri’s work on her pages at DeviantArt and Model Mayhem.

[Show as slideshow]

I’m from a small town in northern Finland. I’ve always wanted to work in some creative field. When I was small I wanted to be a dancer, a ballerina, and did go to ballet lessons for a while, but I guess it never took off (My sister got more into dancing and things, she’s now an aerial acrobat. I suppose the artist’s life runs in the family or something.). Later on I wanted to be a writer, a comic book artist, an actor, director, the list goes on.

I arrived at photography by accident, I guess, since I was never really that good at drawing and photography felt deceivingly easy compared to that, though it really isn’t. I photographed nature a lot at first, nature is always at hand and I just wanted something to do. Finland is a pretty good place to start, the seasons are very varied here so there’s a lot to photograph. Eventually I started liking photography more and more and went to a kind of a community college/vocational school/trade school. I graduated from there about a year ago and, now, am starting at the University of Applied Sciences, focusing on becoming a producer.

As for photography, I like symbolism a lot in mine. I like to photograph secret or surprising things that might not be immediately obvious to the casual observer. Photography is often either about showing something others might not have seen or preserving something you feel is precious to you or somebody else. Today’s digital photography has changed that a bit; you can preserve almost any moment, no matter how insignificant and it is a bit of a challenge to try to make your photograph special in that atmosphere. I’ve tried to be more subtle, not so ambitious, and just want to photograph things I feel are just pretty or nice.

Small moments.

I like details and macro shots a lot, textures like wood or peeled of paint, and have a huge love for abandoned houses, factories etc, and the same idea in nature, places where you can feel that nobody has been here for ages. It feels like time has stopped and like maybe you can sort of look into some other era. In nature, I like how it’s sort of eternal, it’s always been here and it goes on despite what people do. In abandoned houses, I’m fascinated not only by natural light and textures (which both are awesome and often unique) but also by why people left and what they left behind. Did something of them stay behind? I’d like to explore that in photos even more that I’ve done now, the feeling of peeking, almost without permission, inside somebody else’s old life.

But, then again, I’m kind of superficial. I really love fashion and clothes, so I obviously love photographing them, too. I feel there are a lot of contraries; I like the gentle, subtle, organic feel of nature, but also simply love pretty, artificial things like lace and frills and shiny things. I want to photograph people wearing lovely clothes. I chose a lot of fashion/glamour photos for this article, because I felt those would be what Lip Service Webzine readers might be interested in the most. I tried to but in some nature photography, but I don’t feel they work well in the same context. Nature has a completely different feeling.

I style my photos and my models myself and want to mix different styles, but mostly am in what you’d call gothic style. I’m kind of against considering gothic clothing as a fetish, just like I’m against considering models just being sexy or items for fantasies. I don’t think everything is about sex. I’d like to show people being beautiful and incredible without the idea that they’re just posing to be sexy. I’m very much a feminist, which might sound like a contradiction because I often like to photograph others as well as myself in revealing clothing. I just would like to challenge the idea that women are pretty just to please men or that they pose just to be objects. My ‘models’ are usually my friends or acquantainces and, while they’re all gorgeous, they’re not supermodels. And I don’t want them to be, I truly believe everybody can be beautiful and make a beautiful picture. That being said, I would like to someday work with professional models too, to see what somebody who’s trained in being in front of camera would react and how they’d work the photograph.

I also like to do self-portraits a lot. Sometimes I feel self-conscious about it, in our culture it’s considered very narcissistic to do that. I’ve always had problems with the way I look, I’ve never liked it and have considered myself to be down right ugly and disgusting. I guess self-portraits came from a place where I wanted to look pretty and grew more into this exploration of how I want to see myself. In self-potraits I can choose who I am, can control myself. Of course people seeing the picture will think what they think, but I still give them the tools. I decide what I want them to see and what I don’t. I read about a Finnish photographer called Miina Savolainen who had a project with girls from an orphanage, where she took pictures of them to focus their feelings of self-worth and love, to give them an opportunity to be photographed as who they wanted to be and not just orphans from bad homes and bad situations (Note from WebMistress: You can read about this wonderful project at THE LOVELIEST GIRL IN THE WORLD –PHOTOGRAPHY PROJECT). Her idea felt really close to how I feel about self-portraits. It’s like I can re-create myself in my own photos, be who I am or who I want to be without fearing what others think, because in the moment of taking the picture, I’m the only there. Most of them are pretty intimate and often have some kind of secrets with myself, like some things that only mean something to me.

All in all, I like hiding small things in my photos sometimes, like puzzles.

I use a lot of photoshop, which is another thing I’m often kind of torn about. I love to bring something fantastic or dreamlike to photos, something unreal. But then again, it’s very slippery slope to start fixing people and make them look unreal too. I’m definitely against creating unreal expectations of what people should look like. Of course everybody wants to look nice, everybody wants to look their best, is it okay to fix a few zits? Take out a few pounds? It’s a very thin line.

There’s still a lot I need and want to learn about photography. Maybe in the future I will focus on studying it more, or maybe find some kind of mentorship or intership somewhere that could help me out. At this point, I’m still mostly doing it because I enjoy it. One day I hope I can make it more meaningful.

~ Inkeri

You can’t get much more dedicated than getting an awesome dagger tat! Check out the new ink that Dirty Diana in Nürmberg, Germany got on her arm. Diana, you are a hardcore Lippy addict! You rock!

Check out her Myspace page:
www.myspace.com/sweet667

Do you have a Lip Service themed tattoo? Maybe you have a dagger emblazoned on your laptop skin, modded clothes, car, wherever? Well, we would love to see it.

Send photos or video of your Lippy pride to the editor or submit them through the site.

Then we’ll be writing about how fucking awesome you are!

Dr. Billy Malone is new in town but it looks like he won’t be staying in the remote, little town of Desert View the way he imagined. Billy, you see, has a condition nobody would recognize, one which leads to his premature funeral.
What would you do if you were buried alive? This is the Billy’s story … once Dr. Malone, now Billy the corpse.

Part 2

He opened his eyes delicately and deliberately, concentrating as hard as his agonizing skull would tolerate. He stopped focussing after a few seconds. For all he knew he could have been seeing six of everything upside down. Right then the only thing he saw was dark.

Could this be diagnostic? Is that possible?

His mind furiously sought to recall the article he had read just before leaving Boston. A scientist (Rightgen? Rongtgen? Roentgen!) was working with something called X-strahls. A kind of ray that passes harmlessly through a body and leaves an exposed image of the person’s skeletal structure on film.

What’s the point? It’s a simple concussion! The only broken bone I might have is my clavicle if my jaw isn’t let off it.

“Nurse!” His voice was dry and loud in the tiny space. Part of Billy realized that none of the sound escaped the (coffin?) box! Nothing escaped the box.

“Nurse! I’m awake!” Beads of sweat erupted from his forehead and upper lip. As Billy woke up, he became more uncomfortable and frightened.

“Somebody let me out of here!” The reality of his situation began to fester.

X-rays were in theory and prototype only. Boston’s finest hospitals were on waiting lists for the experimental machine. It couldn’t possibly be made from wood. Even if it was, the only hospital he could have been transported to would be in San Francisco, and a little thing caller ether was a new and radical development there. Besides, that still meant that he would have had to have been unconscious for over 48 hours. And there was no bandage on his head.

“Don’t do this! For God’s sake, PLEASE LET ME OUT!” Tears mixed easily with sweat. His breath was making the enclosure even hotter.

He was the town doctor! He knew the proper way to determine someone’s medical condition! Uncle Charles was gone! Left four weeks ago to retire in the Kentucky Hills! The only other person in town considered even remotely qualified was (Billy stopped breathing) Wilson…

◆ ◆ ◆

When his uncle introduced William to Undertaker Wilson, the young doctor’s spine froze. Not a running shiver, like a fever or something. Billy’s blood stopped pumping through his veins.

The ghoulish man in the black overcoat and stovepipe hat took absolute pride in the fact that he was a walking stereotype. When he offered to shake hands, Billy had to fight a tremendous urge to run as if Death itself was reaching out to ensnare him. As it was, he spent the rest of the day trying to wipe the cold clamminess from his palm. But during the handshake, Billy’s thoughts were precise, focussed, and came back to his mind clearer than any of Tulpa’s phonograph records.

This is a man who enjoys his work. His idea of diagnosis is a dirty spoon under someone’s nose. No fog? Oh well. Down you go!

◆ ◆ ◆

Billy’s eyes were so wide open in the darkness that the pain in his forehead began to rival the back of his skull.

Dirty spoon.

His entire body jolted violently. He found centimeters in which to kick. He tried to bang his pelvis against the side. His hands hit, slapped, and clawed randomly.

No fog?

Screaming, he finally threw his head against the top, again and again. The skin split. Blood ran into his open eyes, which witnessed nothing. He continued to strike with his forehead.

Oh well.

Suddenly the sound of a crack filled the (casket? Box!) enclosure. It was the hearty split of layered pine, drowning out the screaming and pounding for an instant.

Billy stopped, startled. At first he thought that the crack might have come from inside his own head. Then an oops, I broke something guilt rose briefly before he squashed it with good, serves ‘em right indignation.

He came to realize nothing had changed. The (casket? Please tell me it’s not a) box remained whole. Except…there was something different. On his lip. There was something on his lip that wasn’t there when he woke up.

Apprehensively, he stuck out his tongue and felt around to see what it was.

DOWN YOU GO!

It was dirt.

◆ ◆ ◆

The other screams had been mere hysterics. Short bursts of profanity from a mind racing in hundreds of directions. Now it was one word. It marched up from the pit of his sick stomach, through his wounded throat, out his desiccated mouth, and to however far outside his tomb it could travel. His bloodied, tearing eyes screamed it. His mind, now completely focussed,
concentrated on it with every synapse.

The word was “no.”

The cry of the unjustly damned. The wrongly imprisoned. The eternally lost.

It filled the chamber constantly for over a minute. One long breath uttering one syllable. “NO!”

Then the hysterics returned. “No,” became rapid-fire. Billy threw his forehead at his prison again. This time the crack widened. More soil fell into his face. The split wood pinched his already lacerated skin. Struck by more pain, he tore his head away from the top, only to have it bounce off the bottom. His concussion called out like a hurt cat. The blackness swirled. Billy felt himself being drawn back into the void.

He prayed that, this time, he would forget how to swim.

◆ ◆ ◆

He knew where he was when he awoke from the dreamless sleep, but knowing the facts didn’t stop the shakes. He had no way to determine how long it took to contain himself.

At some point, his mother’s voice entered the cacophony inside his head. He found comfort in her favorite platitude: Where there’s life, there’s hope. The memory of listening to her preach this simple philosophy returned him to the day she found out her mother had suffered a debilitating stroke. Billy was dragged to the death-bed of this putrid, cursing, pathetic creature and forced to pray that she might be made whole again. Even at age eleven, he knew his prayers were better spent in the permanent dismissal of her pain, and that didn’t mean living. Regardless of the context, “where there’s life, there’s hope,” became his mantra.

Billy felt the anxiety slowly wash out of his body, and he took a couple of sobering breaths. He timidly reached up and felt the cracked surface of the (casket? I’m afraid so) casket just above his face.

In his mind’s eye (the only eye with any vision at the moment), he was back at Boston Medical.

◆ ◆ ◆

Doctor Leland Sternon had the attention of one hundred and twelve students in his lecture hall on the morning he took the time to write “vampyres zombies witches” across his three enormous (and largely considered sacred) blackboards. There was an audible murmur from the crowd, but it was kept respectful for fear of drawing Sternon’s wrath.

“Is there a member of this assembly who knows exactly how many ‘vampyre,’ ‘zombie,’ or ‘witch’ sightings had been reported in the last year or decade?” He glanced around for the sake of pretense. “No? What of an official record of citizens buried alive? Here or abroad, either one?”

The young men of physical healing patiently awaited the point.

“Today, we learn why medical incompetence and dark-age superstition have much in common. If someone rises from the dead, they were improperly diagnosed. The number of people buried alive in the last century is frighteningly large, and those records are woefully incomplete. Now, you may ask, ‘if they’re buried alive, how do we know?’ It’s really quite simple, and quite horrific to someone with any sort of imagination.

“Some people prematurely laid to rest somehow find the strength to escape their graves, only to be branded one of these (striking the boards with his pointer, giving some observers a start) and put to death by a mob of ignorant savages, often led by a physician who didn’t want to admit to making a mistake!”

“You lads are students at one of the greatest medical teaching facilities in the world. This lecture is not to ensure that you know better than to pronounce someone dead when they are in fact in a coma, or suffering from shock, or passed-out drunk. The fact that you are sitting in these chairs should prove that you are armed with this knowledge, and were probably born with it. No, I’m here to pronounce you soldiers in the scientific fight. It’s your duty to dispel all superstition, no matter how seemingly harmless. We are on the brink of the 20th Century, gentlemen! Your patient is society, and the only acceptable therapy is to drag everyone kicking and screaming into what will hopefully be an age of reason! I don’t care what your father’s politics were in the last war! You are to be healers!”

He lowered his voice and looked to see if he was reaching anyone. Some looked bewildered, others looked concerned. Either way, he held the room’s attention.

“You have an obligation to treat anyone regardless of race, color, religion, or which side of the Mason/Dixon line they were born on.” He turned and looked back at the board. “Or if the entire town wants them burned for Satanism.”

He turned to meet all 112 pairs of eyes.

“Jesus expelled demons and slept with lepers. You won’t get as much credit, but it’s your turn now.”

Superstition had been a ruse to coyly direct the lecture toward the profoundly less intriguing topic of ethics. But the presentation haunted Billy. He went to the library to find articles on cases where people had been buried alive. For several weeks, it became something of an obsession. The idea lost it’s appeal as the study of medicine occupied his time. He forgot all about his brief affair with the “undead.”

Until the fleeting obsession became his reality.

◆ ◆ ◆
His fingers found the crack he had made with his forehead. He began to pick slowly, without much force, but steadily determined. One splinter after another, he brought down the wood.

His mind became overrun with visions of women – their bodies wasted with plague, their minds lost – finding the strength to dig out from their own graves. Children, four or five years old, fueled on fear, clawing their way to salvation after an early burial. William was 26. He was hungry, but neither dehydrated nor malnourished. He was healthy by most standards, despite the concussion. As he slowly brought down the pieces of wood, he convinced himself that he was going to make it. He would live “again.”

Slivers ran unobstructed under his fingernails as he picked at the lid. He absently pulled as many out as he could with his teeth, and ate the ones he was able to extract. Several were too far in to be removed by his gnawing. They continued to vex him as he clawed the wood.

He felt the fingernail on his left index finger catch. The protector pulled up and out. Blood splattered his face. Fresh pain settled into his hand. He sucked on the injured digit and continued to tug with his right hand. The tears silently ran down his cheeks. The saltwater pooled with his dried blood somewhere under his head.

When the pain dulled to a low throb, he wiped the blood off on his shirt (feels like they buried me in the same clothes I died in) and started at the plank with his left hand. He winced when the raw finger brushed the rough wood. The loose flakes of exposed skin called out in chorus. It brought fresh sweat to his forehead each time.

The pinky on his right hand was the next to loose its calcium covering. He ignored it as best he could while working with the other eight fingers. To keep his mind occupied, he thought of reasons he wanted out. Why he didn’t merely forego the struggle, relax, and quietly die.

I want to learn to play the piano. My fingers will be wrecked for months, but I want to learn how to play. Every time I go to a party and someone plays piano, everyone stands around him. I save lives, while the best this guy can do is bang out Onward Christian Soldiers,, and he’s God’s gift to society? Well, that’s what I want to be!

“I want…to play…piano!” His breath was becoming short before the proclamation. The heat intensified.

Shut up. Save your air.

His right thumbnail gave way.

I want to kiss Penelope Gardner! The most beautiful girl in the world lives at the boarding house with her parents and she’s eighteen and I know she likes me and I’ve had weeks and haven’t done anything but smile at her and I WANT TO BE LOVED! God! Those women at the bordello Steven took me to! I lost my virginity, but Lord what a price! Boston may have the finest schools, but it has the UGLIEST whores!

Despite the pain and rage and fear, Billy chuckled.

The nail on his left ring finger bade farewell, but he never noticed. All pain became the same. He also hadn’t noticed that he had been digging with the stub of his left forefinger. That was just as well, since the bone of that digit chipped at the pine better than any of the flimsy nails he’d lost.

I want a steak! Where are those great western bar-b-ques? I thought the whole town came together every night and killed and roasted a buffalo fresh from the prairie! Where’s the sing-a-longs? The cowboys? The prairie, for Christ’s sake! WHERE’S THE FUCKING PRAIRIE? Why is this town here?

“What…am…I…doing…here?” Each word was coughed out as his air supply dwindled. His face flushed and fresh tears flowed. He stopped digging and brought his hands to his face as he sobbed.

Visions of towns people appeared on the book of his mind. His uncle’s face floated over him (no wonder you wanted out of here. All those letters telling me how great is was for me to get a practice fresh from medical school. Did you ever think they wouldn’t except me? Or was that why you left so soon?) Before he was finished, the visage turned into Chester. Then Pete. Then Sarah (hope a blanket of fog closes over your house for the next year! That’ll fix your rheumatism, you old bitch). Of Gus (probably why I was buried in one piece. Bless you, Gus), and of Penelope (that’s what should have happened. We should have married and lived happily and uneventfully in Desert View for thirty years and then sucker some young pup into taking over and moved to Kentucky! If I’d have only kissed you! Just once!). He saw Mayor Tulpa (you stupid, drunk, fat bastard! You took everything from me! Why did you have to get drunk before running around in that damned machine? What kind of idiot does something like that?). His mind continued to reel images of people he knew and might never see again. Friends from college, teachers, doctors, and more. His breathing eventually slowed. He relaxed as the adrenaline ebbed out of his system again, but the hallucination persisted from sensory deprivation. He began to nod off to sleep. Somewhere in betwixt worlds, the visage of Undertaker Wilson hovered above him. The ghoul smiled and Billy saw the indentation of the man’s teeth through the skin on his hollow jaws. Shadows covered his sunken eyes, and dirt and sweat flowed down his ancient face.

You look tired, Mr. Wilson. Been working hard? Billy’s mind attempted to keep the vision cheerful, but his inner voice sounded accusatory.

Oh, yes! The specter held up a shovel for proof.

William’s body jolted in the chamber. His hands slid down to his mouth, his body did its best to assume a fetal position. He continued to drift out of consciousness, never fully appreciating the gritty texture on his damaged fingertips. Sometime in the midst of his clawing and scraping, he had reached soil.

Billy the Corpse will continue in the Lip Service Webzine’s September 23 edition

About the author:
Jim Fredrick, author of the novel A Cross to Bare, is currently performing as a stand-up comic throughout South Florida. Sunday nights at 11PM (EST), he hosts the JKRZ show along with Richy Lala, Matt Z. and Kevin McLeman, discussing the trials and triumphs of comedy in South Florida. The call in number is 347-324-3937, if you would like to contribute to the show.

If you should run into Jim in the streets: He’ll trade you a story for a cigarette. It’s a fair trade, as both are proven to take time off your lifespan.

Dr. Billy Malone is new in town but it looks like he won’t be staying in the remote, little town of Desert View the way he imagined. Billy, you see, has a condition nobody would recognize, one which leads to his premature funeral.

What would you do if you were buried alive? This is the Billy’s story … once Dr. Malone, now Billy the corpse.

Desert View, CA 1898

The day crawled on like a dehydrated turtle, blinded and baking in the sun.
Waves of heat sat suspended over the dirt streets. Although the whole town was under expansion to greet the new century, neither man nor beast desired progress enough to move against the searing temperatures. The saloon was open, but no one played the piano, or danced, or started a fight, or even drank too much for fear of stroke.

The only movement in town seemed to be at the end of Main Street, on the porch of the general store.
The old oak sign protested the sparse August breeze. Rusty chains heaved and sighed as they rocked their monstrous burden back and forth, until it was stopped dead by the forehead of William Malone.

“Ouch.”

Young Dr. Malone rubbed his hairline gently and smiled as he waited for the inevitable chiding that was to follow. “Ah have to warn you about that sign every week, Billy!” Chester Kinslow chastised him, never looking up from the checker board he shared with Pete Cawley. “You’re just goin’ to have to stop growin’!” Pete laughed at this like it was the first time Chester had ever made the observation. It was an old wheeze of a laugh that made you sure the 78-year-old man was going abruptly hitch and heave and fall over dead on the playing field, forcing the checkers to actually move for the first time that summer.

“Yes, sir.” Billy smiled. He could have avoided the sign each and every visit (well, except for the first time when he wasn’t paying attention as he climbed the porch steps. That impact nearly buckled his knees), but he enjoyed amusing the geriatric pair. It made them comfortable around him, and that was important. He crossed the porch and put his elbow in the shoulder of Chief Buffalo Chips, the wooden Indian. “You know, you can crown Pete some time this year.”

“Don’t you rush me, boy. Every move…every twitch…every blink is a message of some kind to your opponent. You remember that.”

“The pieces are in the exact same positions they were in last week. The only message you’re sending Pete is that you’re comatose.”

“Comatose…” Pete repeated. He wheezed out another laugh which abruptly turned into a hacking cough. He covered his mouth just as a ball of phlegm roughly an inch in diameter flew out onto his hand. He promptly sucked it back in, turned his head, and spit it over the rail and into the dirt road. “Ah kin still make it over the rail, Billy!”

Chester beamed at his friend. “Hell, he’s been gettin’ better distance since he lost his teeth! Ain’t that right, Pete?”

Pete just wheezed his approval, gleefully displaying his grayish-brown gums.

Billy’s face tightened at the display, but his smile barely faltered.

“I’m going in for the week’s supplies, boys. I’ll talk to you in a bit.”

“You can talk all you like,” Chester commented absently as he turned his attention back to the ostensibly petrified board. “We still ain’t lettin’ you poke ‘round on us.” Dr. Malone’s posture shrank imperceptibly as he stepped through the door.

The lettering painted on the glass read just like the rickety wooden sign; Hatskin’s General Store. Gustof Hatskin was in the back, assisting an elderly Negro woman with some yardage goods. The bell suspended by a bobtail over the door frame clearly announced Billy’s arrival, and Gus looked up with the same welcoming expression the young man had come to appreciate since moving to Desert View.

“Doc! Just the resident we required!” Gus directed his customer down the aisle toward the dapper yet enormous man who entered. “Come down here Ms. Sarah, and let Dr. Malone have a look over you.”

The frail woman never took her suspicious gaze off Billy as she side-stepped the 50-lb bags of flour and grain that littered the ply-wood floor with an ease that only came with familiarity. She stopped within a foot of the young physician, scrutinized him from head to foot, turned to Gustof and accused, “Where’s Doc Prichard?”

Gus rested his hands on the venerable woman’s shoulders. “I have told you Ms. Sarah, Doc Prichard retired. Now we have his fine nephew, William. He’s here to take care of you now.”

“Mis-ter Hatskins, since it’s obvious you don’t take an ol’ woman’s ailments seriously, ah’ll just have to do mah yardage shoppin’ elsewhere.” The tiny figure shrugged off the merchant’s hands, picked her cane off the coat tree next to Billy, shoed the “doctor” away from the door with a series of swats from said cane, and started for the outside.

“I’m the only dry goods in town, Ms. Sarah. You know that.”

“Then ah’ll open mah own! Don’t think ah cain’t!”

Billy thought the bell might fall off or the glass might shatter as she tried to slam the door home, but she simply couldn’t muster enough strength to make a very powerful exit. Billy and Gus stared through the glass in quiet fascination as she took the length of the porch to finish voicing her grievances. “Stupid ox of a boy is what he is! Ain’t no proper doctor! Tryin’ to peek under Ms. Sarah’s skirt! Don’t think ah don’t know!”

“That’d keep me as far from medicine as ah could git!” This came from the store front, followed by a wheezing, hack of a laugh.

“No one axed your opinion, Kinslow,” she said before turning her venom toward Pete, “and don’t you dare spit that at me, you old fool!”

Billy turned away from the minor skirmish outside and began ambling the aisles. Each time he was forced to duck the occasional skittle, pot, or scale that hung low from the rafters, he did so with a shrug.
“You took that well, Doc. People will come to you in time.”

“Just getting used to it, I guess. That’s the reaction I’m getting from everyone since Uncle Charles moved back east.” He picked up a plow harness and began rubbing his thumbs appreciatively into the leather. “What’s bothering her, Gus? Medically.”

“Just a touch of rheumatism. My mother called it ‘the knotting.’” Gus walked to the back shelves of the store and began replacing the bolts of cloth he had taken out to show Sarah.

“It’s the funniest thing, Gus,” Billy said as he gripped the straps and tugged, for no logical reason. “Most people aren’t suspicious of my age so much as my size.”

“That’s going to take some getting used to on their parts, Doc. What small town do you know of where the biggest man isn’t the sheriff or the blacksmith. You’re what they call an oddity right now, my young friend.” William looked puzzled. He let go of the straps and stood straight.

“I’m only a few inches taller than you, Gus. And I know you outweigh me. I’m not that big.”

“But ah grew up ‘round he’ye,” Gus thickened up his accent to accentuate his point. “This makes a difference. They know me, and mostly remember when I was a snot-nosed, flabby boy whose German mother would be screaming to come and help mein ‘fah-dare’ unload the ‘way-goon’ into the ‘stoke-room.’ Don’t be naive, Doc. You are six-and-a-half feet tall? Seven? You’re the biggest thing most of these people have seen in their lives. First pants you buy are gonna stick above your ankles. Which reminds me; have you visited Undertaker Wilson yet?”

“What? Where the hell’d that come from?”

Gus headed to the front counter. “Wilson’s caskets only go to six feet. I know. I order them. If you plan to stay here the rest of your life, you better make arrangements for afterwards. Unless you don’t mind being buried in two boxes? But by then, you will be in no position to complain, so why be concerned.”

“Who thinks about things like that?” Billy approached the front of the store as well. “I can’t believe I have to tell someone I want to be buried in one box. What kind of town is this?”

“This is still the west, after all, Doc. Still the frontier. But,” Gus cupped his hands and looked for his pad and pencil. “You did not come here for funeral arrangements. Yes? What can I order for you today, my friend?” Grateful to get off the topic of his interment, Billy opened his mouth to give a list of things he’d need from the coming month’s stage. What came out seemed to be the sound of a gunshot. He immediately closed his mouth again. Another shot rang out. This time the two men could tell it came from the outside. Turning their attention to Main Street, they witnessed what appeared to be most of the town running amok. A small tornado of dirt and steel whirled about in the center of the chaos.

“I can not remember the last time there was a gunfight in this town.”

“I don’t think that’s it.” Billy’s eyes squinted as he tried to see inside the whirlwind, as well as place the last time he heard that sound. “Sounds more like a backfire.” As he said this, he and Gus moved toward the door in unison.

“A what?”

They walked out of the store and joined Sarah, Chester, and Pete (the two men having actually gotten up from their precious game) at the oak railing.

William Malone was 26-years old when he stepped out of Hatskin’s General Store and into the hands of fate. He never really knew what hit him.

◆ ◆ ◆

There were certain advantages to being the Mayor of a town as small as Desert View. Towns primarily occupied by miners, settlers, and immigrants seeking steady work rarely produced politically savvy residents. People living hand-to-mouth don’t conspire and maneuver to oust an incumbent. As far as they’re concerned, you’re a Pharaoh. Public office is your birthright. You control property development and taxes, which translate into a lot of lives and livelihoods balanced on your whim. Unless you were a complete nuisance to the farms, the ranchers, or the banks, your job was pretty much secure until
death. So, if you liked to nip the bottle occasionally, or spend a little more time in the local bordello than a public official probably should? Let’s just say there weren’t a lot of community watchdogs in 1898.
But what Frank Tulpa liked most about his job was that every couple of years he would be invited east for some kind of partisan rally, and get to rub shoulders with congressmen and senators…and shop.

Frank Tulpa loved to shop.

The last trip, he brought back half-a-boxcar full of phonographs and cameras to share with the people of his hometown (at a modest profit for himself, certainly). But this year! This year he found the most wonderful invention ever produced by man! And it was all for him! This year, Frank Tulpa brought back…an automobile!

◆ ◆ ◆

“A what?”

Billy sighed. “A backfire, Gus. It’s caused by air buildup in the valves of a combustion engine. A motor car.” He thought Gus was putting him on. He could understand Chester and the rest not knowing, but surely word had gotten to the town’s merchant by now. He looked for a shred of recognition. Receiving none, he continued. “Motor car? You know, a horse-less carriage? An automobile?”

Still nothing. He really couldn’t blame them. If he hadn’t gone to medical school back east, he wouldn’t have known about them himself. Billy felt segregated by this knowledge somehow, so he decided to go down to the street for a closer look. Having no thought to amuse Chester and Pete, he carefully dodged the heavy oak sign and descended the three steps to the dirt road.

“Ah don’t know what that contraption is, but Tulpa sho’ is cuttin’ da fool!” Sarah observed. “An’, if mah eyes ain’t failin’, that’s a bottle in his hand! Someone’s in fer hurtful times!”

◆ ◆ ◆

Man and horse alike desperately tried to get out of the random path of the metal monstrosity. The carriage backfired once more. Horses began to throw their riders. The street became littered with sprawled, startled onlookers.

Sheriff Tyler had been inside the saloon, escaping the heat with a round of Texas Hold-‘em. He walked outside to see what had instigated the town to such a degree. He didn’t know what it was that Tulpa was riding, but he did see all the guns that were starting to be leveled at the Mayor. He meandered over to Cobalt, seemingly the only calm beast in town, and rode off toward the maelstrom.

◆ ◆ ◆

“Yuh best git back up here, boy!” Sarah called.

“It’s just a car. It’s not going very fast. And you had all better get used to it, because there’s going to be more of those things around in a few years.” Billy took a deep, hopeful breath. “Horses will be obsolete.”

“Yer talkin’ foolishness, boy!” As he said this, Chester never took his eyes off Tulpa’s wondrous machine. “Ain’t that right, Pete?”

Pete couldn’t respond, as he was too busy hacking his amusement over everyone talking the ass-step off their horses.

“It’s called progress, Chester. You can’t stand in its way.”

“You may wish to follow your own advice, Doc. I think it is heading your way.”

“I don’t think so, Gus,” he replied, carefully eyeing the car’s route. “I doubt the Mayor is going to get anywhere driving like that.”

◆ ◆ ◆

Somehow, Tulpa had maneuvered himself into the passenger side of his new toy. He stretched his right leg out to press the gas pedal, while his left leg fought his considerable stomach for control of the steering wheel. He had it cocked all the way to the right, and took a circular view of his town, passing the general store, north Main Street, the telegraph office, south Main Street, and so on, and proceeded to finish his bottle of whisky.

He laid back to bask in the sun just as Sheriff Tyler rode up along side. The two rode in circles for a time in the middle of the road.

◆ ◆ ◆

Billy tried to read the lips of the men as they cycled past. He thought he saw Tulpa say “Gotlieb Daimler,” which Billy recognized as the manufacturer of the carriage. His roommate in Boston had received one for graduation last year as they were leaving medical school. He even allowed Billy to drive it briefly.
William liked the idea of a machine for transportation. He never took to horses. He was afraid once he moved west, it would be the last time he would see the new inventions for quite a few years.

As the Sheriff and Mayor made another pass, Billy thought he heard Tyler scream “pull over” above the roar of the sputtering engine. A wave of deja vu swept over him. It continued as he watched the Sheriff draw Tulpa’s attention to the guns and rifles that were trying to get a bead on the mechanical gibbon. The Mayor relented.

Tulpa’s heel relinquished the wheel, which he grabbed with more than a little effort. While shifting over to the proper seat, his right foot must have slipped off and jumped right back on. Billy had made the same mistake himself. It caused the mechanism to cough, convulse, and backfire.

◆ ◆ ◆

Cobalt was a good horse. Not wanting to run, she chose to fight. Rearing up on her hind legs, she tried to kick the life out of the alien beast. What her hoof connected with was the left cheek of Mayor Tulpa.

◆ ◆ ◆

The bottle flew out of his hand as he tried to protect his injured face. Spitting out teeth and blood, the Mayor threw himself back into the passenger seat to prevent any more destruction to his jaw.
Slipping once, and therefore responsible for the assault, his right foot held the gas pedal steadfast to the floor. Similarly, the vehicle directed itself to the destination it had last circled toward; Hatskin’s General Store and Doctor Billy Malone.

◆ ◆ ◆

“Doc!”

Gus shouted and tried to pull at him from the top of the porch. But the young man was just outside his reach. Shouting was beyond Chester, Pete and Sarah. None of them had ever been witness to this kind of mechanical hazard in all their long, hard lives.

It was Billy who was the most mesmerized by the turn of events. He advocated progress more than anyone, and he was apparently about to become its first victim. Right then, he would have given anything for the car to be miraculously transformed into a beautiful, air-breathing, warm-blooded horse.

Tulpa’s bottle hit the ground. The explosive sound snapped Billy coherent. He stepped back instinctively, and his foot knocked against the bottom step of the porch without taking hold. Continuing to bring his weight back, he managed to lay himself out on the porch steps with a bone-jarring fall.
Looking up, he saw the swaying oak sign, oblivious to all. The sound of a sick goose jerked his attention forward again, and he saw the radiator of the carriage almost on top of him. Billy closed his eyes.

◆ ◆ ◆

It took the Sheriff a few seconds to regain control of his horse. He didn’t have time to move the doctor, so he tried to get the Mayor to reign in his beast. Tyler rode up to the car again and tried to grab hold. What he gripped was the rubber bulb of a brass horn, which made a rather undignified “honk.” The Sheriff removed his hand immediately, looking as if he had somehow done the contraption harm, just as Tulpa bolted upright.

Hearing the horn, not to mention being kicked in the face, sobered him up enough to realize his new toy was out of control, and he was about to run over the young town physician and into a taxpayer’s retail establishment. Grabbing the wheel fiercely, he jerked it ninety degrees left. The car began to turn, but not before it struck and climbed the first step, missing Billy’s right boot by hairs. The corner of the auto crashed through the railing and vaulted toward the porch skirt. Metal met wood with a severe impact, felt by everyone standing on the porch and stairs. Billy and Tulpa both clenched their eyes with every fiber and prepared to meet God.

The report of sound ran the length of the town. No one dared breath, even as the last echo faded. They waited for Tulpa’s machine to explode, or the general store to collapse, or something else cataclysmic that might swallow the town whole.

Nothing.

Tulpa’s engine had stalled. The only sound coming from the wreckage was the right front tire which was slowly rotating itself to a stop. Plus Tulpa, sobbing and nursing a broken jaw.

The only other movement in town also came from the end of Main Street; also from the porch of the general store. The old oak sign swung erratically on the rusty chains. Against the angst-ridden silence of the town, the board pitched and heaved loudly, as if voicing its protest against the unprovoked assault the porch had just suffered at the hands of Tulpa and his machine. Billy was just becoming aware that he wasn’t dead when, abruptly, that sound stopped too.

The corroded links gave up their heavy burden, simultaneously snapping from either side as they swung toward the road. The smooth, round edge of the 50-lb sign neatly clipped the back end of Dr. Malone’s skull before connecting with the stairs.

The entire town flinched at the impact.

◆ ◆ ◆

Billy laid out on top of the sign, face open to the intense heat of the mid-afternoon sun, his blood running into the carved letters. It didn’t hurt. Not then. He felt something like a shove, and then he was on his back, facing the sky. He heard Gus scream his name (well, “Doc” anyway). He heard people running up. Most were laughing nervous laughter, unaware that he was hurt.

Or not really caring.

He heard Gus tell everyone how he tried to pull “the boy” out of the way. Chester said something about the checker board being tipped over. Sheriff Tyler was telling the Mayor that he was going back to play poker, while Tulpa was crying and vomiting. Then he heard Sarah. “Well, maybe now we git owselves a real doctor!”

Then he drifted away.

◆ ◆ ◆

The sensation was like swimming, but he was surrounded by substance-less void.

Thrashing around in the emptiness, he discovered that he had no need to breath. But he desperately wanted to breath. The voice in his head said that breathing proved he was alive. The voice was all he had right then.

Panic quickly set in. Part of him wanted to curl up into a ball, sink to the bottom of the nothingness and be content there. But another part of him, the part that could feel the edge of substance just beyond his fingertips, the voice, refused to allow his arms and legs to stop kicking.

The intangible space smothered him like quicksand. The more he exerted, the more it dragged him further away from border of the void (if there even truly was one).

He began to scream, thrash and cry without thinking. He only plunged deeper toward Hell. But amidst his convulsions, his left foot struck something solid. He was shocked! Exhilarated! He stretched out in the direction of the unknown construct, gained a foothold, and leapt for the edge of the abyss. He broke through the subconscious wall and into the world of those who are aware.

◆ ◆ ◆

“Ou-ch.”

The pain radiated from inside his head. His eyes hurt long before he tried to open them, not that opening them did any good. He immediately knew that, wherever he was, it was entirely enclosed. Before worrying about the where, Billy concentrated on what kind of shape he was in.

Physician, diagnose thyself.

His head sang in discomfort. He was surprised to feel no bandage.

His jaw was painfully thrust into his chest, as his head had been pressed against a wall of some kind. He shifted, to much regret. Brand new pain splattered across his eyelids. He became alarmed to find his hair stuck to something that had the density of wood.

My blood’s coagulated.

His nose confirmed it. Nothing smells like dried blood except the genuine article.

Discomfort flowed down the rest of his body the more he awakened. He realized that his legs were bent out of shape and cramped. He found that his feet were pressed flat against the same kind of wall that mashed his head forward. His knees were forced into a corner that was quickly identified as the lid to his enclosure.

His hands were folded over his chest. Reaching up to rub his eyes, his fingers brushed the top. He explored the texture.

Definitely wood. I’m in a wood box.

Billy the Corpse will continue in the Lip Service Webzine’s September 9 edition

About the author:
Jim Fredrick, author of the novel A Cross to Bare, is currently performing as a stand-up comic throughout South Florida. Sunday nights at 11PM (EST), he hosts the JKRZ show along with Richy Lala, Matt Z. and Kevin McLeman, discussing the trials and triumphs of comedy in South Florida. The call in number is 347-324-3937, if you would like to contribute to the show.

If you should run into Jim in the streets: He’ll trade you a story for a cigarette. It’s a fair trade, as both are proven to take time off your lifespan.

In this day in age, decades have become trends. We’ve had our run with with the hippies, taken our own spin on the mods, got hard with the 70′s biker look and revisited the the 80′s with much enthusiasm.

So this fall the 1990′s take their rightful place among fashion.  You remember the 90′s right? (KMFDM, Doc Martens, belly rings, Steve Urkel, etc.) It’s all been 10 years now. – Which is either gonna make you feel really old or really young.

The 90′s happens to be one of my favorite fashion decades. Grunge and rivet head styles have long been a staple in my wardrobe and don’t think I’ll ever stop wearing boots.  But this season’s revival gives me the excuse to rock an amazing hair color trend: The faded dye look.

Achieving this washed out style takes a little time and planing. The goal is to not make look too obvious, while not making it look like complete butt either.  You want to aim for the well polished apathy look.  There are several ways to achieve this, however I’ve found the below methods to be the fastest and produce better results.

Photo by Jim Wayer

Bleach your hair to a pale yellow, rinse, then apply the color of your choice. Leave the color on for only 5 -7 minutes then rinse. The color will be bright in some spots and washed out in others, making almost a tie-dye effect.

#2 CLAIFYING SHAMPOO

Color your hair as normal and rinse with a clarifying shampoo. (The kind swimmers buy to get the green out of their hair.) In about 3-4 washes you’ll have a great worn inlook. *My color in the picture above was achieved with this method.*

#3 ROUND BRUSH

Coat a round brush in bleach and run it through your hair. Let process as usual. Rinse. Then apply desired color. This works well if you’re going a grown out look.

There you have it!

Now it’s time to whip out that flannel shirt from the back of the closet …

XoXo

Nos

katie and me! - click to enlarge

So, they say these types of trips are how horror movies start, haha nice! It’s Monday, August 17th and I’m off to the mountains with my woman(Katie). It’s about a 3 hour drive from Portland, nothing like a good unplanned road trip and, fyi, you can’t plan an adventure.

An hour into the drive she asked me if I was hungry, because this is the last place to stop before we enter the mountains. If I had one last request, I wouldn’t choose Subway, but it was that or Dairy Queen…. Taco Bell sounded nice! My last meal would be “The 4th meal” anyways. My sub was sloppy and poorly made … she was no “sandwich-artist”. The lettuce was like slime and the bread was stale, but it did the job.

Fat ASS on a boat! - click to enlarge

This was so Texas Chainsaw massacre or a movie called Wrong turn, all the small, back roads country stores and no phone service…(warning A.D.D. ahead!)

Anyways, “When is a good time to write out a will?” I asked myself while listening to music and staring out the window on my drive. So I reached back into the backseat, grabbed my notebook and pen (never leave home without it). I pretended to write lyrics, sound ideas or doodles to keep Katie from knowing what was really going on in my head.

I'm bringing sexy back! - click to enlarge

Monday, august 17th @ 3:15 I decided to write my last words, goodbyes… my suicide note to everyone….

“What sums up a person in the end? What they have done, accomplished or what they didn’t do? It feels like yesterday I was 6 riding my bike in my parents front yard, dirt on my hands and a smile on my face. Life really does fly by. Not much has changed, though I still have dirt on my hands and still act like a 6 year old at times. I guess what I’m trying to say is, I don’t want to die old, unhappy and impotent. I have everything I want right now, my music, my youth, my girl and my friends…

.. Later on I turned the lake into wine - click to enlarge

“So, I’m leaving my guitar to my brother, my horror movie collection & fangoria magazines to Jake, my iphone to my sis, my records to my girl<3, I want my dog Bear to be buried with me. Mom, I’m sorry and it’s not your fault. I’m stoked to go party with Randy Rhoads and Dad, you rule, man, hope you forgive me for being a quitter. (p.s. I hated taking Taekwondo!) To all my other friends and my dear Steadlur fans, I love YOU, steal my music!

“I was supposed to write 500 words, but screw it. Anyone who knows me, knows I talk to much! Wow, what a tangent i just got off on!

The End. (We'll miss you here at the webzine, Philip) - click to enlarge

“So, here are the pics of me at the mountain hanging out in Triangle Lake! I hope this doesn’t get my band pissed or suspended from twitter again. I know for sure youtube doesn’t care! Thanks for hanging with me and my traveling Stretch fucking jeans!

Goodbye xoxoxo”
Philip told me to make sure this was posted, so there it is.

I have not succumb to cabin fever since the last thrilling installment of the Gothic Charm School tour diary. No, not in the slightest, because good heavens, the past week was busy! There was a cupcake-festooned confab with one of my photographer friends about some entertaining projects we’ve been plotting. (Muah-ha-ha!) There was a phone interview with the lovely Rachel over at Glass Of Win on BlogTalk radio, which was one of those fun conversations with someone you feel like you’ve been friends with for ages, even though you just met them. Then there was the slightly fiscally irresponsible shopping venture that resulted in the purchase of a new pair of Fluevog boots. (Only slightly fiscally irresponsible, but still. Perhaps not the wisest thing to do when one is job-hunting.) Plus there was all the catching-up-with-real-life boring stuff, like laundry and cooking and so on.

But on Saturday, it was time for The! Last! Stop! On the Gothic Charm School book tour! A signing at The Dreaming Comics and Games in Seattle, a store run by two very dear and long-time friends. They turned the signing into a tea party, with mint iced tea, cucumber sandwiches, and Russian tea cookies.

Clovis would rather have the Russian tea cookies that are off-camera

(Goth challenge: can you eat a Russian tea cookie and not scatter powdered sugar all over your black clothes? The rumors that this is one of the initiation rights for the Secret Goth Cabal (that doesn’t exist) are completely unfounded. Trust me.)

The signing was a relaxing, catching-up-with-friends sort of event, with the occasional person I didn’t know wandering by, looking through the book, and exclaiming “Oh, this is perfect for my (daughter/son/cousin)!” (I signed a couple of books that afternoon with a “To —–, you have a charming parent, and I hope you enjoy the book!”)

Note the wary expressions ...

The catching-up with friends included seeing two of my favorite photographers and persuading them to hold still while I aimed my phone camera at them. They very kindly didn’t laugh at me, and didn’t even make any horrible faces. Another nice surprise was seeing a friend who had moved to Japan two years ago; I teased him that it was very kind of him to travel all the way from Japan just to come to my signing.

(I would love, love, LOVE to go back to Japan, and even more so if it were for something related to Gothic Charm School. Alas, so far I have not been able to make that dream a reality. Previous trips to Japan included fun things such as visiting the breathtaking Osaka Aquarium, where the largest tank holds 5,400 cubic metres of water and is home to a whale shark and manta rays! But I want to visit all the wacky theme restaurants, like the Vampire cafe and Alice In Wonderland restaurant! Someday, someday …)

I met Autumn, a very talented artist who had recently moved to Seattle from the Bay Area. Her illustration style made me think of what would happen if Alphonse Mucha had done manga, and her personal clothing style is a perfect example of that punkish, Deathrock-gypsy look that I always wish I could carry off. Yes, I’m quite serious. I’m happy with my gothy-Victorian cupcake style, but there are times when I see the fabulously fierce Deathrockers and sigh longingly. I have friends who swear they could transform me into looking like that, but I have my doubts. I suspect I am too much of a cartoon character to look that vampishly predatory.

But speaking of being a cartoon: look! A reader sent me absolutely darling fan art! She even gave me teeny-tiny fangs, which makes me look at my shelves of vampire fiction and giggle.

With teeny fangs!

So what’s next for me? Oh good heavens, I don’t know. Writing. Job hunting. Finding myself in the middle of wacky hijinks, that’s a certainty.

Thank you so much, Jillian, for sharing your adventures with us! ~The WebMistress

There is lots and lots of vice on the internet, which we all love, of course. Rather than give you the obvious, I thought it would be much more fun to show you the OTHER sins you can feed with these lovely, sinful tubes. Because, well, I’ll be giving you plenty of sex next time with a video interview with hot webcam treat, JJ Bonde. You’re scrolling down to lust already, aren’t you … ah well, after you check that out, pervs, enjoy the rest of the full monty of sin …

The Seven Deadly Sins of the Internet!!!

Anger

Anger - The Smash Shack - Click to enlarge

Okay, this one would be damn easy if I just went for the obvious. But, hell, you can find hateful fucking douchebaggery anywhere. I would rather offer a fun and destructive outlet for your anger management issues. So, if you’re feeling a bit ragey, why not hook up with Sarah’s Smash Shack in San Diego. For a reasonable price, you can go into a special room and smash the fuck out of whatever goodies you pick up there … You can even bring in your own stuff to destroy. It’s all good and it’s a whole mess of fun!

Or, if you’re not feeling the smashy-smashy, perhaps you’re a bit more into the passive aggression? At Passive Aggressive Notes, you can get some great ideas for that next work refrigerator, dorm bathroom, or even posted to random public places tome to express your dissatisfaction to the world around you.

Avarice posterchild Oprah at Ugliest Tattoos - Click to enlarge

Avarice

Okay, this one is a toughie, too, without giving undue attention to the get-rich-quick asshats looking to score your hard-earned bread. So, instead, I went a bit lower rent and give you a good laugh, to boot. At Infomercial Hell, you can check out the latest “hot” products and plot your rise to the top of the entrepreneurial heap while laughing your ass off at the hilarious commentary.

And, got to say, no commentary on greed would be complete without a shout out to my good, avaricious buddy Oprah and her site filled with ways you can make her even more wealthy through your collective worship. Doesn’t she have enough fucking cash by now?

Speaking of Op, here we have that which damn well should be a sin but, sadly, isn’t, we give you Ugliest Tattoos. Seriously, heinously bad ink … sigh … there ought to be a fucking law!

Gluttony - Food Porn Daily - Click to enlarge

Envy

In a world taken over by “aspirational” marketing and all the bullshit that comes with it, where does one find some good, interesting, and new wrinkle in the world of envy? Why, at Celeb 4 a Day! For a nominal fee, a sad, sad asshole can rent everything from paparazzi to fake PR flacks to trail them around and feel like a real celebrity. Fuck, we really are just one step from vomitoriums, aren’t we?

Gluttony

Seriously, I can’t do this sin without a shout to the mainstay of gluttonous hedonism, Chow. It is the promised land of gluttony and food excess, with restaurant info, recipes, drink info, you name it.

Gluttony - Taste Spotting - Click to enlarge

But, I want to throw some less travelled gluttonous destinations your way. For the dedicated glutton, especially those who love nothing more than a fabulous dose of food porn to treat our eyes, Food Porn Daily is a must-go destination. I challenge you to NOT drool. Another yummy food glutton site is Taste Spotting, another massive collection of foodgasmic photos, recipes, and info.

For you liquid gluttons, and who doesn’t love a satisfying drunk, there is Liqurious, the home for all manner of drunk-o-liciousness.

Lust - My Friend's Feet

Lust

Lust - Human Ponies

Okay, you fucking perverts, I know you’re looking for lots of links to all sort of nasty smut. Well, too damn bad! There is more amusement to be had by finding the road less traveled, the world of niche interests. Because we’re dealing with adult sites, fun and silly though they may be, I am totally a link nazi … NO LINKS FOR YOU! But just know that sites like Human Ponies and My Friends Feet are out there, ready to satisfy your more unique desires for riding your boyfriend or, perhaps, seeing him in sheer, sheer socks … I won’t even get into the hirsute sites we came upon or the godzilla bukakke (because bukakke is so last month anyway). I’ll leave you the fun and frolic of finding them yourself.

Pride - Awful Plastic Surgery - click to enlarge (if you dare)

Pride

Oh, this is a favorite! When it comes to vanity, there is so much to choose from on the internet, but one of my personal favorites is Awful Plastic Surgery. They say, “Pride goeth before the fall,” but not in fucking Hollywood it doesn’t; more like nipped, tucked, stretched, and plumped to within an inch of it’s frick’n life! Not only do you get to see wickedly obvious pictures of celebrities with bad plastic surgery, you get witty commentary by a plastic surgeon horrified by the excess. It is, in a word, juicy!

On a messier vein, here is a solid future candidate for the site above, Gwynneth Paltrow and her Goop. Gwynnie is certain she has so much to offer we little people, like advice on which $800 shoes, $1500 purses, and $600/night hotels we should pick. And, of course, we have the recipe to Gwynnie’s goop, the details on her “elimination” … yeah … ewwwww!

Sloth

Considering the entire internet is a huge vortex of slack, this was an easy one. But that would be far too slothful, even for lazy-ass me. Instead, I’d rather help you to reach your pinnacle of slackitude by steering you toward Run My Errand, a service in Boston which does exactly what it says, helps you find people to do all the crap you can’t be bothered dealing with yourself. If you’re not in Boston, never fear, there is another site, Do My Stuff, which lets you post your shitty jobs for other, less lazy, people to bid on doing for you. Now you can get back to surfing porn like the true lazy-ass red-blooded American you are!

Tacky Weddings - click to enlarge (if your eyes can take it)

Well, that’s it for the regular sins, but what about those things on the internet which really should be a sin? I’ve got a few real treats for you!

First, take a nice, long wander through the the most fucked up weddings you’ve ever seen at Tacky Weddings. Yes, those are REAL wedding photos or real brides. Scary shit, huh?

Dog Glasses ... just fucking sick

Then there is the disturbed website that thinks it is not the height of cruelty of put goggles and sunglasses on your frick’n dog. Seriously, they really should be stopped!

But these are just an appetizer for the King of Bat Shit Crazy. If you have never heard of Ted Jesus Christ God, you really owe it to yourself to check out his new site. Yeah, I know it’s not nice to laugh at crazy people, but Ted is just too fabulously whacked out to resist. I may be going to hell, but the belly laughs are worth it. Just get cozy and settle in for some of the weirdest shit you will ever encounter anywhere. You’re welcome!

NEXT TIME (WED. SEPT. 2) GET READY TO MEET JJ BONDE AND FIND OUT IN OUR EXCLUSIVE VIDEO INTERVIEW THE SECRETS OF CYBERSEX FROM A REAL WEBCAM PERFORMER!

In Awake, we meet Kat, a woman struggling with her feelings of isolation, and Max, her mysterious suitor. They share the same longing, a similar loneliness, and are drawn together by the hope of someone who can ease the pain they’ve felt, a love to fill the void in their souls. With absolute abandon, they explore their pain and desire in one fateful day that will change their lives forever.

From their first encounter in the picturesque St. Louis #1 cemetery of New Orleans, Kat and Max are brought together by fate. Or is it?

* * * * * * * * * * *

“I don’t know, overall it sounds like a pretty good deal to me,” Kat uttered softly, her eyes riveted on the louching of the vintage Pernod Fils before her. “The whole taste thing, though,” she wrinkled her nose with distain, “I don’t know how I’d like that … or the killing part. I wouldn’t want to kill anybody, even if they really deserved it.”

If one spent enough time around goths, the conversation invariably made its way around to vampires. Like jocks and how much they bench or geeks and comic books or one of the Stars –Wars or Trek. It’s just there, waiting for its moment to arrive. In the home of Anne Rice and her famous brain-children, it was as inevitable as the sunset.

“They never said it had to involve killing. That’s just something some of the authors put in to make it gorier,” Max argued. “Really, it’s just about blood, not death, per se. It’s more about who you are before, I think.”

“Yeah, you have a point,” Kat conceded, grumbling a little. She never much liked being out-reasoned. “Still, it’s all very silly. It’s like, science and knowledge has grown exponentially, yet we’re still stuck with this voodoo old school nonsense about death and old stereotypes. If vampires drink blood, how can they process it if their digestive system doesn’t work or their heart doesn’t beat? Or, if they’re dead, or undead, why wouldn’t their tissue decay like, say, zombies, and how do they heal if nothing works? How do they cry and sweat blood if those systems don’t work? Nobody thinks of this shit. It’s maddening!”

“See! You get it!” Max exclaimed, almost jumping up from his seat. “That’s why I came to you. You understand realities, not mythology. It’s reassuring.”

“Came to me,” Kat uttered, a question in her voice.

Max’ face became more serious, his eyes piercing hers. “I’ve been searching for someone like you. For ages I’ve been alone, hoping to do it right this time.”

Kat wasn’t certain whether it was the absinthe or Max making her feel so intoxicated. A lightheaded sensation had overcome her, though not an unpleasant one. It seemed she was floating above herself, levitating but seeing through the eyes of her body, still beneath her in the chair. She couldn’t decide whether she should smile or scream. She calmed herself and addressed Max’ odd statement instead.

“Come on, Max. What are you, twenty-one? Twenty-two? I know everything feels like forever, I do. I’m there most of the time myself.”

Max grinned wistfully, “You’d be surprised.”

“Try me.” Kat tried on her best challenging smile, but she had a strange feeling it would not last long. There was something about Max she couldn’t put her finger on, a creeping suspicion something beautiful and awful was coming.

Max’ eyes grew tired and he looked away toward the Square, now packed with revelers out for a night of debauchery. They had been talking, eating, drinking for quite some time and, though he was aching to tell Kat everything, he couldn’t help but hesitate. It felt too soon. But he was the one who propelled the thing forward, he who drew her in, tickled at the edge of revealing himself to her only to return to hiding. He could make her accept him, force the issue, but he didn’t want it that way. It must be real, and for the right reasons, or it would end disastrously. He could not bear to be alone anymore, but to survive another Lilly would be worse than ending.

There were the others, surely, but they were no better in the end. He had been so careful, so slow to act, but ultimately lacking judgement. They courted him, lured him, and when they had what they set out to get from him, left him alone once again. Surely, Kat would not do that to him, at least he hoped she wouldn’t. One could never be sure until the moment of truth arrived, which he assumed was why he continued to stall, dragging on the inevitable decision he had to make or continue suffering this loneliness. He had to tell her, but how?

How could he tell her the truth when he, after all this time, was still discomfited by himself?

Max sighed. It had to come out sometime, may as well be now. “I want to tell you something.”

* * * * * * *

* * * * * * *

It was just another sunny, bustling day. I had gathered up my men and was set to go into town to do a bit of trading. I had a prosperous business in cotton at the time, though this was part of my problem, but that’s another story. There was another purpose to my visit; I had an appointment to see Lilly.

To say that Lilly was beautiful would be to call Everest a little steep. She was enchanting, almost hypnotic in her charm, and she had no rival. For some reason, she had settled on me and shooed away all other suitors, much to the chagrin of her parents. They were an important family, one of the most prominent in Southern society and, though I was certainly wealthy enough, my pedigree was not much to their taste. They’d have been far happier with one of the older family’s sons or perhaps someone important from French society. But it was not to be. Lilly, despite all their efforts, would see no one else. She would say, “I have a sense about Maxwell.”

She knew what she wanted and was not about to let anyone, even her family, stand in the way of getting it. So, for the time being, I was her beau.

While the boys did my business, I rode out to see her. The sun was winking at me, birds trumpeting my arrival, and I was astride my pride and joy, an impressive black beast I still miss to this day. I felt like the world was bowing, yielding to me. The prospect of seeing her always had that effect.

But there was something wrong. I could sense the heat of stress and tension the further I rode into the grounds. Before Jonas, their butler, could greet me, one of Lilly’s younger maids, Maddie came running out like the devil himself was at her heels. She stopped, panting, next to me and blurted out, “It’s Miss Lilly, Mister Max! They didn’t know about Hannah and … it’s bad Mister Max. It’s awful bad!” the girl exclaimed, tears rolling down her cheeks. I would not get anything coherent from her, so stroked her hair affectionately, she was a dear thing, and rushed toward the house and Jonas, who seemed more in his wits.

His expression was grim, mawkish, like a man at a damned funeral. “What the hell is going on, Jonas?” I demanded.

Jonas shook his head slowly, his eyes telling me all I needed to know. “She’s got the Yellow Jack, Sir, it’s going ’round everywhere. It don’t look good.” As he shook his head some more, I could see Lilly’s older brother, Silas, approaching. “Poor Miz Lilly. The doctors say it’s bad, Mister Max.”

It was straight out of the blue and looming there is our midst, death. I stood there, my jaw hanging to the floor, forgetting all about Silas. Well, he hadn’t forgotten me.

“You have no place here, Calder. Just go back to your rabble and leave her to us. It’s your low kind caused this!” the words fell like venom from his mouth, spit punctuating his point in angry volleys. “You and your damned paddys … ” He tried to stand in my way, but was obviously counting on Jonas to do the real work.

I would have none of it. Jonas was not about to stop me, though he’d put up a good show for the boss. The gentility may have hated what I stood for, hiring rather than owning my work force, but the others … well, they thought me a bit of a hero. I shoved past Silas, he was always a bit soft anyway, and made my way toward Lilly’s quarters. Up the stairs I flew, two, three at a time, racing to be with her, to comfort her, to do whatever I needed to to make her well again.

When I made it to her rooms, the pall was already upon them. As I approached her bedside, I noticed the shivering, jaundiced creature I had called my Lilly. This could not be her, certainly. What was in the bed was a husk of a girl, not the beauty I knew. She was not far from the end, I could smell the death everywhere. Fortunately, there were only servants with her, my kind, so they happily left us alone and I locked the door behind them. No one could see what was about to take place.

I looked sadly down, loathe to do what I knew I must. Her whisper broke the silence, “It’s so close. You know what you must do, my love. You are the only one who can save me now.” Had she known all along?

Pulling up my shirtsleeve, I cut a small gash in my wrist and held it to her hungry mouth. She drank greedily and, I must admit, even I felt weakened for a moment at all she had taken from me. It was a struggle to free myself, but I did, as I knew I must. She had taken more than enough.

Of course, there were questions when Lilly rose from what was to be her deathbed, the very vision of vitality, and strolled jauntily downstairs to greet her dumbstruck brother. How could there not be? If I thought there was enmity between her family and I before, it was nothing to compare to what was to come.

But Lilly knew what she wanted, always had. When they tried to keep us apart, she came to me. When they tried to bribe her, she threw my wealth in their faces. When they tried to threaten her, she merely laughed. She would not be refused. Yet, I continued to refuse her what she asked, no matter how cruelly she begged and cajoled. I loved her, you see, and hoped to save her my fate.

But she was clever, terribly clever. She knew how to get what she wanted, always had. And, what I failed to realize, she knew the extent of the connection we shared, the bond we had made. She knew precisely how she would win over me.

Her family had taken her into her rooms and held her, for all intents and purposes, their prisoner. I was at home resting and, not coincidently, thinking of her and how I could bring her back to me. Then I felt it, a gash of raw pain searing me to the core. I knew exactly what it was; I had felt it before, a long, long time before, but things like that you never forget. My Lilly was dying.

I rushed to her, putting aside all caution. It was like nothing I had ever seen, which is to say a lot. Lilly had severed arteries in her wrists and throat and had almost bled out completely. Her eyes begged me for what she knew I had labored over all these months. I loved her so that I could not refuse. Blind with tears, I bent over her, drained her to the brink of life, then fed her what would give her life anew. Once she had drunk her fill, I realized the precariousness of our position and left that place. We fled to my home, bolted the door tight, sealed all the windows and created suitable barricades against invasion. At the least, we had to remain until she had been restored.

I held her then, more tenderly than I had before. She was mine now, I was hers, and we were eternally joined. I had never thought of the consequences. I had never really known Lilly, only what I wanted her to be.

When she awoke, filled with my life, there was a new cruelty in her eyes, a glint of hard steel I had never seen there. Her brothers were pounding at the door, her parents calling to her behind them. “Let them in,” she demanded, smiling, my blood still ripe on her lips. “I have some favors to return to them.”

“Lilly, we must go,” I begged her. “You don’t understand what you’re doing.”

“Au contraire, dear Max,” she licked her lips. “Perhaps it is you who don’t understand. I no longer need you or your damned guilt. Do you think I would forgive you what you’ve made me endure, what I’ve had to stoop to for this? When you could have given it freely?”

I couldn’t speak, just stare at this monster I had created, this beast with my lover’s face. “I wanted …”

“You wanted,” she mocked. “You wanted to keep it all to yourself is what you wanted. Even when I sought out that horrible girl, that Hannah, and was at the brink, you denied me what should have been mine. You doled out a crumb, like alms, and made me beg you, humiliate myself, and still you denied me.”

“Oh, no,” I couldn’t believe my ears. “Lilly, you didn’t.”

The brightness of her smile cut worse than any knife. “I knew you could not refuse me, not when I was dying so prettily for you.” She strolled past me toward the door, her bloodied curls bouncing with a perverse gaiety. “You can run along now, unless of course you’d like to stay for some sport.” The voices rang in my ears. I tried to call out to them but the cries only choked in my throat. “They will suffer for what I have suffered,” she shouted, her lilting voice transforming to a shriek. “They wanted to control me, so now will answer for it!”

I was still frozen with shock, appalled at her but mostly myself. Somehow, I thought she could not be this thing, an unleashed horror. Lilly unlocked the door to the terrified, gaping faces of her family. Instantly, she grabbed Silas and, before I could react, tore at his throat and hurled him aside like a broken doll, his still-twitching body crushing a demi lune table beneath its weight. She was already reaching for another, her eyes glazed with mad power. Only I could stop it.

You see, I had no choice. Grasping the broken leg of the table under poor Silas, I buried the severed end into her chest. The cry of pain, hers and mine co-mingled, must have been heard for miles. I flew from that place, not knowing where and what to go to, and wandered with no will, nothing but sadness, until a few years ago. I still mourn for her, though like you, I really cry for myself as well as what I lost that day.

I have been searching for it ever since, not really knowing what “it” was. That is, until I felt it return to me. Now, I think, there is hope.

* * * * * * *

* * * * * * *

Kat was in a daze, yet she could feel the blood coursing through her, pumping with wild intensity. Her fingers were the first movement she perceived, the slightest flex telling the rest of her body it was ready.

The fog seeping through her thoughts had lifted at last. She recalled her rapt horror and empathy, the pain striking her heart on hearing what Max had suffered. There was Lilly, the final blow and most certainly the worst. But before, there had been others with nothing but their own greed, their own lust, guiding them on. His life had begun as a slave and, ironically, in the freedom his new blood afforded him he found only new bonds forged by loss and regret, worsened with each failed attempt at solace from his loneliness.

They had held each other for hours, not speaking, barely moving, until she knew what her soul needed for her to do. Taking his hand, she rose, leading him to lead her where they could be alone, be each others. Standing, waiting, patient, she took in the beauty of his flesh, pale as marble and eternally youthful, forever vital. It was almost more than Kat could bear, like seeing the David for the very first time, more beauty than one can fathom in one glance.

As he drew her to him, she felt his heart beating as strong as her own and knew there was nothing of death to be found within him. The stories had gotten it wrong. Max was alive, so alive the very life force of him could not, would not extinguish itself.

Slowly, he explored her, languidly kissing and caressing, as if time held no sway. Kat supposed it no longer did, as Max literally did have all the time in the world. His skin felt cool against her warm hands and lips, but she knew his blood was running hot within it. He was hard against her, his urgency beginning to grow as well. She took him into herself, wrapping her fingers in his dark hair as she felt him move within her. The passion overtook them, soft seduction yielding to savage ecstasy. Max’ eyes met Kat’s and sought out the answer to the only question between them. She knew what he needed and that she had never wanted anything more.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Her senses reeled as Max was inside her, within her, of her. Her blood, white hot as it pulsed and flowed, molten lava melting away her pain, the cold sadness that had frozen her soul. Blackness exploded into millions of brilliant lights streaking behind her eyes, a star for every moment of creation, every moment to come. They ebbed and swirled, glittering auras of vibrant color in their wake stoking new fires to light more stars for creation to begin again.

Exhausted, spent from their lovemaking, she and Max had wrapped themselves in each other, embracing as tightly as they possibly could as they drifted into sleep.

Now, after her body had its rest, Kat was ready to awaken. Her once-leaden arms, still crossed against her chest, felt the soft crush of Max’ wound around them, his smooth chest pressed tenderly against her back in a protective spooning embrace. He nuzzled her neck lightly, kissing her gently.

Kat smiled, at last in a place she could call home. She now was his and he, hers. They belonged to and with each other in a way she could never have understood just the day before. The long sleep was over.

She was ready. Awake. Alive. Vampire.