Thursday, January 6, 2011

The Taste of Blood.

Most vampires were turned for love in the novels, but for me it was a business proposition. My original benefactor was as interested in the arts as blood. She turned me one night, mostly on a whim, or perhaps it was the mention of my first gray hair and how we all eventually grow old. That hopefully I would live long enough to taste the perfection that all true craftsmen long for to fashion a masterpiece. The last thing I remember is the swish of her purple sleeve as she bent over me.
Thankfully, being an artist covered all manner of eccentric behavior. Patrons never blinked when you insisted you needed all kinds of odd things or hours. A few fang marks and you could have a village rioting, but saying you need some blood for an evening from the patron to capture the true soul for their masterpiece and they practically fall over all over themselves offering vials full of the stuff. And so she'd lived for centuries, master to not one medium, but countless. However, in all those sunsets languages still stuck in the fuzzy space in her head. It was as if her hands had gotten all the creative juices and there had been none left for the tongue.
Well, here she was in Germany, departing from a red-eye and off to meet her translator. She was into fabrics these days and design. Fumbling through the iPhone, she came up with a name....Ben something or other. Well, hopefully he wasn't too hard on the eyes. Now to go find the taxi and hopefully survive the next week of bad food.

No comments:

Post a Comment