I should have introduced myself months ago, but I guess I forgot, so I'll do it now. I'm Luchi. I write stories. You probably landed on my profile because I often ask silly questions in writers' communities. There isn't much to say about me, except that the vast majority of the content you'll see here is based on Gabriel and LĂĄzaro, the characters from my book.
Gabriel is a grumpy angel who does nothing but smoke and complain about humans; LĂĄzaro is a charming and theatrical vampire (yes, because on this blog vampires are more than welcome and loved!) whose vocation is to annoy Gabriel.
If you like the subversion of archetypes, irony, theology, ridiculous situations, something with a Good Omens vibe and a chaotic duo, here's the prologue along with the first chapter, so you can get to know them:
Yes, here
Thanks for stopping by. You can stay. Or not. Gabriel would say it doesn't matter. LĂĄzaro would say you're not going anywhere.
1. My Little Pony/Bubble Guppies and The Lion King and Ice Age (specificially Continental Drift) đđŚđŚŁ
2. An author, horseback rider, or dentist! It's sort of close to now, I would prefer owning a cafe library combination, forensics, or law! âď¸đđ§Ź
3. Hmm I guess 13? I was very nervous but excited for middle school when I was younger. I don't think I've been to worried about turning a certain age. đ§đź
4. I don't think I'm popular, known among people that I have classes or have spoken to, but nowhere near popular lol đđĽł
Bonus: The name of my first pet/dog was Bruskey! First cat was Lola, and my first fish was Beta (guess what type she was)
TAGSSSS: @dreamgirl-spilled @elizhm @adelepocketbook @printer-reads-505 @caravalxjurdan240 @wallyblack1925-offical @sanayarita @cinnamonkarma @mayawithany @remmickshop @future-muse @flyerguardian @callmegayandgrunge2 @sabinee33 @ladygreenbrair @teahsometimeshasthoughts I 𩷠ALL OF YOUUU đ
1. When I was super young it was Peppa Pig and Frozen and then after that it was Trollhunters.
2. A teacher. I wanted to be a teacher up until I was 10, then my parents ruined my self esteem a lot and I ended up going 'fuck it I'll be a doctor or an engineer or whatever you want me to be.' Now I want to be a psychologist, which I suppose they're okay with. Either way I'm helping people.
3. There was a time when it was 14 because that's the age in which all those High School movies/ tv shows used to show the girl falling in love and getting a boyfriend and having her heart broken and I was like I HAVE TO GO THROUGH ALL THAT?? WHAT IS LOVE?? But now I don't really care.
4. I'd say I'm pretty popular. Not super popular, but popular enough to be walking down the corridor and at least two or three people would say hi or wave at me. I'm just super social, I do a few clubs and a lot of the people I talk to introduce me to their friends so the amount of people who I know keeps growing and growing lol.
Psychology? Oh, how interesting! Besides helping people, you can always apply what youâve learned to create even more three-dimensional characters. Itâs a win-win, no matter how you look at it.
I loved watching Scooby-Doo! Mystery Incorporated. Even though there were the odd episodes that scared me a little bit, I really enjoyed it.
When I was very young, I used to say I wanted to be a teacher; later on, I changed that to wanting to be an editor. The funny thing is that what I do now has nothing to do with either of those options.
I don't know; I don't think I ever associated any particular age with being the worst one to be.
Not at all! I was (and still am) very shy, but I was lucky enough to have classmates who were always very kind to me, to the point where they would offer their help even if I didn't say anything.
Tags (I struggle with tagging people, okay? Don't judge me): @ackleskisser-mp4
(Note: If you answer "no," we regret to inform you that the exit options have been temporarily disabled. But please continue reading; you won't regret it.)
Let me introduce myself: I am a missionary for the Unified Vampire Communityâ˘. And yes, vampires have missionaries. Where do you think new vampires come from? Because, for your information, we don't go around biting people without their consent[1]. That is a very harmful stereotype for our community.
In any case, we didnât come here to talk about that, but rather to ask if you have ever felt frustrated by the limitations of mortal flesh. Have you experienced the unbearable fragility of the human body? Have you ever woken up with a backache without having done a single thing to deserve it? Well, we have the solution.
Conversion to vampirism is a 100% safe and risk-free process[2].
[CONVERSION SUPERVISOR INTERVENTION]: Tell them it will be a "transformative rebirth, guided by centuries of tradition and ancestral knowledge." We want it to sound more appealing.
Ah, right, right. Let me add this: you will experience a transformative rebirth that will free you from the bonds of mortality. Great, isn't it?
Let's see, where was I? Ah, yes.
Consider all the advantages of joining us. You will never have to pay taxes again[3], you will never worry about wrinkles, and you will even be able to watch future generations fail and repeat the same mistakes over and overâlike an entertaining, eternal reality show.
Reflect on history. Great thinkers have pondered life and death since time immemorial. Parmenides said that change is an illusion. Heraclitus argued the opposite. And here we are, proving that both were wrong at the same time. We are the dream of philosophy made reality.
[CONVERSION SUPERVISOR INTERVENTION]: This is not a philosophical essay; focus on the benefits.
Okay, okay.
Between you and me, dear reader, the truth is that youâve been sold a mistaken image of vampires. From a young age, humans are indoctrinated with the idea that it is fine to associate with the Fae and trade parts of their own bodies for small sums of money. The Tooth Fairy is nothing more than Fae propaganda!
[CONVERSION SUPERVISOR INTERVENTION]: Please refrain from making comments about the Fae industry. We do not want another diplomatic incident.
But itâs the truth; people have been brainwashed! Everyone thinks vampires are monsters, but nobody asks what the Fairy does with all those teeth!
[CONVERSION SUPERVISOR INTERVENTION]: Proceed with the conversion. Now.
Anyway, the real question is: are you ready to open your mind to eternity? To embrace a glorious destiny and drink from the cup of immortality? To leave behind your limited humanity and...
[CONVERSION SUPERVISOR INTERVENTION]: Too dramatic. Sound more approachable.
...to try an alternative lifestyleâflexible and full of opportunities? Just think about this: youâll never have to deal with unwanted family gatherings again!
[CONVERSION SUPERVISOR INTERVENTION]: Better.
You might be wondering: "How do I know if Iâm suited to become a vampire?" Thatâs an excellent question! To clear up any doubts, weâve designed a compatibility test to help you find out:
VAMPIRE COMPATIBILITY TEST
Do you feel that your existence is an endless cycle of senseless bureaucracy?
a) Yes. God, yes.
b) Sometimes.
c) No, I am a happy person (lieâwe know it; mark "a").
Have you ever felt that sunlight is too harsh and would prefer to live in eternal semi-darkness?
a) Yes, damn it.
b) Now that you mention itâŚ
c) I like the sun (incorrect answer; mark "a").
Do you like dramatic capes and theatrical entrances?
a) Absolutely.
b) No, but Iâm willing to learn.
c) No, I donât have good taste.
If you answered mostly "a" (or if you answered "b" or "c," but we want to recruit you anyway), congratulations! You are an ideal candidate for vampiric conversion.
Before proceeding, however, I sense a certain⌠resistance on your part. Something in your gaze tells me you are considering closing this post.
Don't do it. Please, don't do it. Look, I can negotiate. Do you want benefits? I have benefits. Flexible hours. Guaranteed immortality. How about a pension? Well, noânot that. But we can talk about other kinds of incentives[4].
Wait. You are looking away from the screen. You are thinking about leaving. Don't do it.
No. NO. YOU CANNOT LEAVE. I WILL NOT ALLOW YOU TO LEAVE.
ERROR: THE EXIT OPTION HAS BEEN DISABLED.
ERROR: THE EXIT OPTION YOUR FREE WILL HAS BEEN DISABLED.
Listen, human: this is no longer an offer. It is not a suggestion. It is a destiny. Your destiny. You have been chosen.
[CONVERSION SUPERVISOR INTERVENTION]: Please adjust the tone. We don't want to scare the candidate. Kindly rephrase the message using a more welcoming and less apocalyptic tone.
âŚ
FINE. Fine! As I was saying, we look forward to seeing you in our community soon. Remember: a converted vampire is a happy vampire. Conversion is a blessing, not an eternal sentence with no escape[5].
Sincerely,
Your future immortal self.
[1] Except when we're hungry.
[2] It is not 100% safe. In a recent study, 87.4% of the subjects experienced side effects, including but not limited to photophobia and chronic insomnia. We are also obliged to clarify that, technically speaking, you will die and then be revived, but we do not want to scare you with the details.
[3] This statement has not been legally verified.
[4] Incentives subject to availability.
[5] Your consent signature will be recorded as soon as you close the post. Don't worry; you'll understand everything once you wake up with fangs.
Iâve seen various tweets, Instagram comments, and even a post from Duolingo Brazil claiming to love Latin America while demonizing Argentina. It seems like hating on this particular country is trendy and, worse still, encouraged. Even though this post doesn't fit my usual content, Iâm going to call out this harmful behavior anyway, because it seems like people think they know what a country is like just by watching a TikTok.
First of all, the prevailing comments I encountered were about Argentina being one of the most racist countries in existence, as well as the claim that âArgentina is white.â Both statements are false. Is there racism? Of courseâjust as there is racism, to a greater or lesser extent, anywhere else. The fact that racists make more noise doesn't mean the majority of the inhabitants share that view. Is Argentina a white country? No; that was the official historical narrative promoted during the civic-military dictatorship (1976â1983), but not what happened in reality. In fact, while organizing the 1978 World Cup, the military regime sought to project the image of a âwhite, European, and civilizedâ nationâan effort that entailed rendering Indigenous and mestizo heritage invisible and subjecting it to persecution. Now, do you know who backed the dictatorship and the horrific acts that took place during that period? The United States.
During the Cold War, the United States actively promoted and backed multiple dictatorships and coups d'ĂŠtat in Latin America, and the CIA was involved. It was the U.S. that intervened, for instance, in Chile following the democratic election of Salvador Allende; the Nixon administration funded propaganda and strikes to pave the way for the coup led by Pinochet in 1973.
I think it is more than obviousâthough I will say it anywayâthat historically, since the early 20th century, the United States promoted military interventions and installed authoritarian regimes to protect the commercial interests of their corporations. If you don't believe me, please read up on Operation Condor so you can learn about all the logistical support, and even training, provided to the dictatorships.
Returning to the subject of Argentina, it is incredibly sinisterâthough hardly a coincidenceâthat hatred is being stoked at this particular moment. I have read people wishing death upon Argentine children and seen calls for the bombing of Argentinaâs capital, but, above all, there is a certain... phrase: âArgentina's problem is that it is populated by Argentines, so that is what we have to fix.â It is a despicable and disgusting comment, all the more so because it was made during an international forum in front of foreign business leaders, where Argentinaâs vast territory and its access to energy and water were being highlighted. Patagonia is being sold off and thereâs talk of companies coming to the country to set up AI data centers thatâwhat a coincidenceârequire water and energy!
If you don't see the connection between what is currently happening in the country and the anti-Argentine campaign, you are incredibly naive or stupid.
No matter how many blankets he piles up around himself, he's still cold. He thinks maybe they aren't enough. Yes, that must be it: a matter of quantity. So he steals blankets from other people's closets; and when that doesn't work either, he wraps himself in curtains, in coats, in anything he can find; he huddles by the fire until the flames devour the wood and the embers die, turning into red, lifeless eyes; he rubs his arms until they hurt; he holds his fingers to the flame of a candle (and he gets a little closer, just a little closer, andâŚ)
You need to calm down.
The idea comes to him suddenly.
Calm down.
Calm down.
Calmdowncalmdowncalmdown
He wraps himself more snugly in the furs and tries to count. One, two, he says aloud while insisting on breathing. He inhales, and nothing goes in. He exhales, and nothing comes out. (His body remembers things it no longer knows how to do. It remembers the heat, it remembers the sweat sticking his shirt to his back, the unbearable summer afternoons when he would have given anything to feel a cool breeze.)
The laughter he tries to unleash dies before it's even born.
Counting was a bad idea. It didn't calm him down. If anything, it made things worse. Because now he can't stop thinking about water. Hot water, boiling water. What if that were the solution?
No. It isn't. Boiling water burns, it doesn't heat. So why does he keep thinking about it? Why does the idea keep coming back?
Boiling water.
Boiling water.
The cold still clings to his ribs as he sits up. It accompanies him as he crosses the room and reaches the kitchen. There, the creature who isn't sickâbecause sick people recover, and he will never recoverâfinds the box of matches and begins the preparations with mechanical movements. Water is poured into a pot, a flame is lit beneath the metal. Everything seems perfectly normal. He likes that. The illusion that he is still a person preparing hot water in the middle of the night and not a strange thing that no longer breathes.
While waiting for the water to start warming up, he closes his eyes and tries to remember what it was like to be alive.
What it was like to walk in the sun without having to seek shelter in the shade after a short while, what it was like to feel his heart pounding after running, what everything was like before he started drinking...
Don't say it.
Don'tsayitdon'tthinkitdon'tsayitdon'tthinkit
The liquid begins to make faint sounds inside the pot, and the first bubbles appear at the bottom.
An almost sheepish smile forms on his lips. How foolish he has beenâhe has been thinking small all this time! He had merely been trying to negotiate with the cold, attempting to convince it to leave, but one cannot negotiate with curses.
The water is boiling.
Steam rises in white spirals that distort the kitchen and turn the world into something blurred and unreal. Bubbles strike the surface with constant, stubborn violence, and he gazes at the pot for long seconds before lowering his eyes to his own hands.
Pale. Dead.
The word repels him.
Dead.
He immediately pushes it aside.
There is no point in thinking about thatâjust as there is no point in thinking about those nights when the cold seems less intense for a few minutes after feeding, and how that feels even more horrible than the cold itself.
People get used to everything, he tells himself. They get used to pain, to loss. They even get used to the worst versions of themselves.
That idea, which ought to reassure him, fills him with immediate revulsion. Because he doesnât want to get used to it. Because he doesnât want to wake up fifty years from now and discover that he no longer remembers the warmth, or wake up a hundred years from now and discover that he no longer misses it. He has lost too many things to lose that, too.
Even his shadow has abandoned him. And so, there is no one in the room to stop the sharp-fanged creature as his fingers pierce the boiling surface of the pot.
THIS IS INSANELY FANTASTIC!!! THE HORROR OF LOOSING SOMETHING SO PERSONAL AND CLOSE AS THE WARMTH THAT GREETED YOU THE SECOND YOU WERE ABLE TO BREATHE!!!!
My favorite line had to be
âThere, the creature who isn't sickâbecause sick people recover, and he will never recoverâfinds the box of matches and begins the preparations with mechanical movements.â
BUT ITS SO HARD TO PICK A FAVORITE BECAUSE THE ENTIRE THING IS PHENOMENAL!!!!! THE ISOLATION ANF TGE LONELINESS!! SEEING HIMSELF AS A CREATURE WITHOUT ORGANIC MOVEMENTS!!! MECHANICAL!!!
HIM TRYING TO BREATHE AND UNABLE TO FEEL THE BEAT OF HIS HEART AS PROOF THAT HE STILL HAS LIFE IN HIM!! NEGOTIATING with the COLD???? AS IF IT IS A PERSON, AN ENTITY, AN EVIL BEING THAT REFUSES TO BE CONVINCED!!! THATâS ANOTHER TGING I LOVED, the personification of inanimate and otherwise dead things while he was stripped of everything that made him alive!!!
Sorry for the rant but I feel like I just stumbled over a gold mine!
I feel like you made a lamp appear and turned it on right in my face (by this I mean you brightened my afternoon). I can't tell you how much I appreciate you taking the time to read it, and not only that, but to analyze it. My intention was definitely for the cold to feel like a presence, and originally there were lines of the cold taking the character's hand or getting into his bed, but I felt it was too obvious, so again, I'm grateful you noticed it! <33
No matter how many blankets he piles up around himself, he's still cold. He thinks maybe they aren't enough. Yes, that must be it: a matter of quantity. So he steals blankets from other people's closets; and when that doesn't work either, he wraps himself in curtains, in coats, in anything he can find; he huddles by the fire until the flames devour the wood and the embers die, turning into red, lifeless eyes; he rubs his arms until they hurt; he holds his fingers to the flame of a candle (and he gets a little closer, just a little closer, andâŚ)
You need to calm down.
The idea comes to him suddenly.
Calm down.
Calm down.
Calmdowncalmdowncalmdown
He wraps himself more snugly in the furs and tries to count. One, two, he says aloud while insisting on breathing. He inhales, and nothing goes in. He exhales, and nothing comes out. (His body remembers things it no longer knows how to do. It remembers the heat, it remembers the sweat sticking his shirt to his back, the unbearable summer afternoons when he would have given anything to feel a cool breeze.)
The laughter he tries to unleash dies before it's even born.
Counting was a bad idea. It didn't calm him down. If anything, it made things worse. Because now he can't stop thinking about water. Hot water, boiling water. What if that were the solution?
No. It isn't. Boiling water burns, it doesn't heat. So why does he keep thinking about it? Why does the idea keep coming back?
Boiling water.
Boiling water.
The cold still clings to his ribs as he sits up. It accompanies him as he crosses the room and reaches the kitchen. There, the creature who isn't sickâbecause sick people recover, and he will never recoverâfinds the box of matches and begins the preparations with mechanical movements. Water is poured into a pot, a flame is lit beneath the metal. Everything seems perfectly normal. He likes that. The illusion that he is still a person preparing hot water in the middle of the night and not a strange thing that no longer breathes.
While waiting for the water to start warming up, he closes his eyes and tries to remember what it was like to be alive.
What it was like to walk in the sun without having to seek shelter in the shade after a short while, what it was like to feel his heart pounding after running, what everything was like before he started drinking...
Don't say it.
Don'tsayitdon'tthinkitdon'tsayitdon'tthinkit
The liquid begins to make faint sounds inside the pot, and the first bubbles appear at the bottom.
An almost sheepish smile forms on his lips. How foolish he has beenâhe has been thinking small all this time! He had merely been trying to negotiate with the cold, attempting to convince it to leave, but one cannot negotiate with curses.
The water is boiling.
Steam rises in white spirals that distort the kitchen and turn the world into something blurred and unreal. Bubbles strike the surface with constant, stubborn violence, and he gazes at the pot for long seconds before lowering his eyes to his own hands.
Pale. Dead.
The word repels him.
Dead.
He immediately pushes it aside.
There is no point in thinking about thatâjust as there is no point in thinking about those nights when the cold seems less intense for a few minutes after feeding, and how that feels even more horrible than the cold itself.
People get used to everything, he tells himself. They get used to pain, to loss. They even get used to the worst versions of themselves.
That idea, which ought to reassure him, fills him with immediate revulsion. Because he doesnât want to get used to it. Because he doesnât want to wake up fifty years from now and discover that he no longer remembers the warmth, or wake up a hundred years from now and discover that he no longer misses it. He has lost too many things to lose that, too.
Even his shadow has abandoned him. And so, there is no one in the room to stop the sharp-fanged creature as his fingers pierce the boiling surface of the pot.
Writing this took me an embarrassing number of days, but hey, at least it's finished.
I must thank everyone for their opinions on pineapple pizza, especially @cinderellabutabitch, whose comments I adapted and included (yes, the pseudo-fruit idea was hers).
Gabriel hated everything.
He hated the excessive number of pillows piled on the bed, he hated the enormous windows that took up almost an entire wall and let in the Parisian night lights as if the city were desperate to be admired, and, above all, he hated having indulged LĂĄzaro's desire to stop at every shop he pointed out. Because first he had wanted to buy chocolates, and then postcards, and some gloves he didn't need, and stop to look at an exhibit on the history of the Eiffel Tower, and listen to the songs of the street musicians, andâŚ
âŚand as they wandered through the city with their luggage still in tow, Gabriel considered abandoning him and returning alone to the airport, where he would catch a plane back to his beloved, quiet apartment.
What a pity that affection was such a difficult disease to cure.
âI don't want to be here,â he declared for the fifth time in less than twenty minutes, dropping his bag with enough force to express bitterness without seeming dramatic. âI don't even understand why we came to France.â
âBecause it's romantic.â
âWe're not romantic.â
âSpeak for yourself.â
The angel let out a weary sigh that LĂĄzaro didn't hear because he was already sitting on the bed leafing through the last pages of the directory, where the services available twenty-four hours a day were listed. His attention was drawn to a glossy photograph of food. He quickly picked up the phone lying on the nightstand.
âGood evening,â he said when someone answered. âYes, room 814. Iâd like a large Hawaiian pizza, please.â
âA what?â
LĂĄzaro raised a finger without taking the receiver from his ear. The gesture said wait. âExtra pineapple, yes. Oh, and if you have maraschino cherries, add them too. Perfect, thank you.â And he hung up.
The angel ignored the fact that they had barely set foot in the room and his traveling companion had already ordered food, and instead asked:
âDid you order a pineapple pizza?â
âCorrect.â
âThat's an abomination.â
âAnd what is your argument against it, oh wise fallen angel?â
âWell, it tastes like it's about to go bad, and that's not even considering that fruits are sweet; they don't belong in a savory dish like pizza.â
LĂĄzaro rested his elbows on his knees. âThe tomato is a fruit too, and I don't see people getting all worked up about caprese pizza.â
âThat's because it's a pseudo-fruit.â
âYou just made that up.â
âNo! It exists!â
âWhat on earth is a pseudo-fruit?â
Gabriel made a vague gesture with his hand.
âA⌠culinarily ambiguous fruit.â LĂĄzaro looked skeptical, prompting the other to add, âThere are biological differences.â
âUh-huh. Explain them to me.â
The angel's mouth opened to say something, for the explanation was there, buried in some corner of his memory alongside several millennia of useless information, but at that moment he couldn't find it.
âYou can't explain it.â
âYes, I can.â
âThen explain to me why a red fruit on dough with cheese is delicious, but a yellow fruit on dough with cheese is a dreadful combination.â He smiled insufferably when he saw that Gabriel couldn't answer.
After a few seconds of astonishment, he said:
âEven if I explained it to you, you wouldn't understand; you have bad taste.â
âRegarding pizza?â
âRegarding everything.â
LĂĄzaro's smile widened. âHow specific.â
In reality, it was an unfair accusation. LĂĄzaro had barely lived one hundred and fifty years, which, from Gabriel's perspective, was little more than an introduction, a prologue. Because things changed with the centuries; because tastes and priorities changed, and one learned to distinguish what was worth preserving from what was better left behind.
He might order ridiculous food combinations now and buy useless souvenirs at every airport, but what would happen when he was a millennium old? Two?
He'd develop decent taste.
The idea made him uneasy. Because decent standards usually implied a certain selectivity, the ability to choose better people, better company.
Gabriel watched the lights of Paris reflected in the windows.
LĂĄzaro could sit anywhere in the world and, before the afternoon was over, he'd have someone laughing next to him. He was charming. Ridiculously charming. He possessed a disarming facility for listening, as well as the skill to turn any conversation into a story and any story into something worth listening to.
He, on the other hand, achieved the opposite effect. He found flaws before virtues, and instead of attracting people, he drove them away.
Perhaps it was convenient that the vampire had bad taste.
âI think you're afraid to enjoy it.â LĂĄzaro's voice interrupted his train of thought. âI can already picture what will happen: you try a slice, you like it, and then you have a crisis because you've spent decades defending a position that turned out to be incorrect.â
The angel ignored him; otherwise, the argument would have dragged on endlessly. Instead, he decided to retreat to the armchair by the window. He remained there, in a state of silent hostility, until, twenty minutes later, three polite knocks sounded at the door. Låzaro opened it, and the hotel employee entered pushing a silver trolley on which rested a bottle of wine, perfectly folded napkins, silverware that no one was going to use because even monsters have their limits⌠and, in the center, the pizza.
The dough was thin, toasted at the edges; the cheese glistened in the room's warm light; the ham had small grill marks, and the caramelized pineapple slices shone with a sticky, sweet sheen that made them look like tropical jewels. Maraschino cherries were there too: tiny red dots scattered across the surface.
Once the employee left, LĂĄzaro took a slice. Fangs appeared around the edge of the hot dough, not monstrouslyâLĂĄzaro never allowed himself to appear monstrousâbut subtly, and pierced the caramelized pineapple.
âOh, this is excellent,â he murmured, his mouth still busy chewing. âListen, listen to this.â
âListen to what?â
LĂĄzaro raised a finger and bit down again. The bark cracked under the pressure of his teeth, a sound that pleased the immortal creature that survived on human blood.
âIt's sweet, salty, and slightly sour all at the same time,â he remarked appreciatively. âYou have to try it.â
âNo.â
âJust one bite.â
âNo.â
âNot even a big bite!â
Gabriel shook his head. What would Italians think if they saw that? LĂĄzaro, despite having spent years in Italy, despite having lived and argued with Italians, despite still retaining an Italian accent that appeared from time to time, rounding some vowels, softening certain consonants when he spoke too fast or when something excited him enough, defended pizza with pineapple.
Some people were simply incorrigible.
âI think you need to be fed.â
Gabriel was so engrossed in his thoughts that he assumed he'd misheard. But no, because LĂĄzaro had a portion of the food in his hand and was approaching him with a mischievous (or was it flirtatious?) smile. He didn't have time to identify it, because suddenly the vampire was sitting on the armrest, one leg dangling carelessly and the other brushing against him, and he was close, too close, and Gabriel could make out the amused glint in his eyes, how his fangs were showing.
âOpen your mouth, amore mio,â he ordered with utter shamelessness. The bastard was enjoying the moment.
âI'm not going to do it.â
âNot even for myself?â
âEven less so.â
LĂĄzaro let out a low laugh. Then he leaned forward a little more, just enough so their faces were level. Just enough so Gabriel couldn't do anything but look at him. He glanced at the freckle beneath his left eye, although the detail was overshadowed by the sight of his lips.
It was difficult not to, not to look at those lips that always seemed halfway between a smile; that curved before uttering some stupid thing; that disappeared behind a cup of tea the few times he decided to drink it (Gabriel knew perfectly well that he preferred juices and smoothies); that formed an exaggerated pout every time he rejected one of his absurd invitations; that pronounced his name in a strange, intimate way when he wanted to annoy him.
Gabriel knew too much about LĂĄzaro. And perhaps that's why he didn't react immediately when the vampire raised his free hand and brushed a curl of hair from his forehead. The gesture was simple, so why had he completely forgotten what he was thinking?
âYour hair is a mess,â LĂĄzaro murmured, the blond lock caught between his pale fingers. He gently tucked it behind his ear.
Gabriel felt an uncomfortable heat rise up his neck. Vampires couldn't blush. Angels, unfortunately, could.
It didn't help that LĂĄzaro was still so close. Or that he looked at him as if he were something important, sublime, worthy of reverence. Or thatâ
The phrase came out in a gabble, and when the vampire blinked in confusion, the angel took the opportunity to place a hand on his chest and push him slightly backward. The gesture wasn't particularly effective, but it put a few centimeters between them, which was exactly what he needed to remember how breathing worked.
âLeviticus ten, verse ten,â he continued, hoping this abrupt change in conversation would be enough to make him not notice the blush coloring his ears, or how much his heart was pounding. âYou shall not mix the profane with the holy.â He had paraphrased the quote so much it lost its true meaning, but LĂĄzaro didnât know that. âSo you and your disgusting pizza had better stay away from me.â
For a second there was silence. The vampire looked at the dough and the cherries, then at Gabriel, and then let out a laugh so abrupt he almost lost his balance on the arm of the chair. It was a shame he didn't fall; perhaps banging his head against the floor would have sorted out some of his thoughts.
âYou can't be serious,â he gasped between laughs. âYou've spent all eternity disavowing God, and now you're quoting the Bible to argue against Hawaiian pizza?!â
The other one clenched his jaw. He had just become the kind of angel he had sworn he would never be.
âI don't want to talk about it.â
âNo, no, no, no, no.â LĂĄzaro sat bolt upright. His gentle expression had vanished completely; now he was back to his old self: theatrical, delighted with himself, and dangerously entertained. âThis is good. Too good. The atheist angel has returned to his roots!â
âLĂĄzaro.â
âI'm going to remind you of this moment every time you open your mouth for the next two hundred years.â
Gabriel rolled his eyes with all the apathy he could muster.
Though he would never admit it, the idea of ââputting up with that idiot for the next two centuries was strangely comforting.
đŠ¸Rural vampires. Instead of mansions, they live in shacks in the middle of the swamp; and instead of being surrounded by swarms of bats, there are mosquitoes.
đŠ¸A mermaid and a vampire have a child, and that child is a leech.
đŠ¸Since vampires cannot stand sunlight, they live in subway stations.
đŠ¸Vampires who always close the lid of their coffins because they are afraid that the tooth fairy will steal their fangs.
đŠ¸Vampires who sleep in their coffins wrapped in many sheets because they are cold. (They are still cold, but they like the softness of the blankets.)
đŠ¸Broke vampires as indicators of recession.
đŠ¸Vampire history teachers who lived through all those events firsthand. (Or vampires who spent an entire century sleeping and didn't know about those wars and revolutions.)
đŠ¸Vampires who enjoy eating dishes like blood sausage, carpaccio, steak tartare, and mett. Depending on the country they visit, they might try the national raw meat dishes.
đŠ¸Pirates as vampire hunters. If vampires are the leeches, then like the colonizers, pirates are the resistance that hunts them down.
đŠ¸Some bats purr like cats when they're happy, relaxed, or have eaten. Now imagine a vampire purring after feeding on their victim.
This text is based on the character written by the talented @mog-evil. While it is not necessary to read the original material, I do recommended doing so to have the complete experience, in addition to being an enriching read due to its distinctive and experimental nature.
As you will notice, this text differs from my other works in its more "academic" or "formal" narrative, but I hope that it will still be an enjoyable experience for you, as it was for me to have written it <3
Metals have many characteristics, such as their high electrical and thermal conductivity, as well as more visible peculiarities, like their luster (angels shine too) and their malleability: the ability to deform under pressure without breaking, to adopt new shapes without losing their structural continuity. This trait has allowed humanity to mold tools and complex systems. (He wasn't molded with hammers or heat, but he learned, nonetheless, to yield. He learned not to move a muscle unless asked; he learned to endure the putrid smell emanating from that which, once, was warm; he learned to stop counting the days, to soften his voice when he speaks to himselfâno, he doesn't speak to himself; it's just that his companion has stopped answering him, but is still there, still there, just as he himself is still there, on Earthâ; he learned to scream, because no one in Heaven had taught him how.)
Metals are also notable for their strength, a quality that makes them essential components in structures that require long-term stability and durability, where failure is not an option. (He hasn't returned, though he could; he hasn't disobeyed, though no one reminds him exactly what he's supposed to obey. He stays because he believes someone will eventually call his name with something akin to affection and summon him back home. In the meantime, he endures.)
In terms of composition, metals can occur in various combinations, forming alloys that modify their original properties and give them specific characteristics. These variations allow for optimizing their performance depending on the contexts in which they will be used, thus considerably expanding their versatility. (He's made of something that isn't listed on any chart. Barium disodium, if anyone insists on naming it, although the nomenclature is insufficient to explain why his skin has taken on a sallow hue that wasn't there before. He sometimes smells of isopentyl acetate: a fruity trace that's more noticeable when it rains. He doesn't understand why it happens, just as he doesn't understand why the body he's clinging to keeps changing: softening in some places, hardening in others. The flesh peels away from the bones no matter how much he kisses the top of their head in an attempt to wake them up.)
Toughness is another important property of metals: their ability to resist fracture even when subjected to prolonged stress. This attribute allows certain materials to maintain their internal cohesion beyond what might be expected, extending their lifespan. (I'm still here. That counts as resistance, doesn't it? That should count. I haven't left. I haven't done anything I shouldn't have. I've waited. I've waited because I trust that silence is not absence but a test, howeverâ) (is it a test?) (I can be better) (if there's something about me that isn't right, I can fix it) (I can change) (I can polish myself, reduce what's superfluous, eliminate what doesn't fit) (is that why?) (is it because I'm not⌠pure?) (I'm not made of just one thing, I know it, I feel it, there's something mixed in me, something that isn't quite perfect, something that maybe was never meant to be there) (but I can fix it) (if you tell me, I can fix it) (you just have to say it) (you just have to say my name.)
Nevertheless, metals, despite their apparent stability, are not immune to deterioration. Oxidation, for example, is a slow process, almost imperceptible in its early stages, but constant in its progression (no one explained to him that waiting also has cumulative effects), which ends up transforming both its appearance and its functionality. (At first, it wasn't noticeable; he remained upright and fulfilled his assigned duty. But the decadesâfor there are decades on Earth, though not in the same way Aboveâbegan to settle on everything they touched. Half a century is enough for the world to forget. Half a century is enough for even waiting to change shape. His limbs are now as thin as sheets of aluminum, and his left wing has finally split open in a fissure that can no longer be ignored. It doesn't matter. He wasn't going to fly. Not without His permission.)
(Sometimes he tilts his head and brings his face close to the other's, with a caution he learned not on Earth but elsewhere, and his lips brush again and again against skin that no longer responds, that doesn't return warmth. He waits. He waits a little longer. (It should work.) He tries again, for one of his greatest virtues is patience, and he trusts that everything will eventually fall into place. (Why isn't it working?) (Why aren't them moving?) (I'm here) (I haven't left) (I'm not going anywhere) (wake up) (please) (please).)
Oxidation occurs when the material comes into contact with agents such as oxygen and moisture (and moisture is what's seeping into his cheeks). Contrary to popular belief, moisture doesn't always come from the environment; sometimes it's generated within the material itself, accumulating without an identifiable external cause, as if the system were creating its own deteriorating conditions.
(It shouldn't happen.)
(Not in something like me.)
(Not in something that was made to last.)
(The drops fall and collect at the edges of a face that still retains the shape of what it once was.)
This is a short story about what happens when the duo gets drunk (as well as a glimpse into how they live their lives when they're not on a mission to restore order to the universe lol).
The bar is nothing special. Dim lighting, the smell of stale alcohol, and a bartender who clearly hates his job. Gabriel leans against the bar, holding a glass with a frown, wondering at what point in his life he made such a stupid decision as letting himself be dragged to this place by LĂĄzaro.
LĂĄzaro, on the other hand, is in his prime. His arm hangs casually over Gabriel's shoulders as he smiles at him with that stupidly enchanted expression that only alcohol can justify.
âI love you so much, ĂŽngeraČ,â he mumbles, tapping him lightly on the cheek.
Gabriel pushes him away with a grimace of disgust. âDon't touch me.â
LĂĄzaro laughs. He tries again. Gabriel pushes him away again. And so it goes, several times, until LĂĄzaro, with his vampiric persistence, manages to grab hold of Gabriel's neck in a precarious embrace.
âLeave me alone,â Gabriel growls, trying to shake off the drunken vampire.
âNoooo, don't be like that. You know what? You're my best friend.â LĂĄzaro squeezes him tighter, as if Gabriel were a teddy bear.
The angel rubs his face with his hands. He's losing patience. And that's dangerous. Because every time he loses patience, he starts drinking faster. And when Gabriel drinks faster, he starts talking.
âNothing makes sense,â he suddenly murmurs, staring at his half-empty glass.
The bartender, who until now had made a remarkable effort to ignore the scene, raises an eyebrow with visible discomfort.
âHere we go...â he whispers.
âThe universe is an endless absurdity,â Gabriel continues, paying no attention. âEverything we do, everything we are, is a chain of irrelevant events. We may be here drinking, pretending thereâs something beyond this, but there isnât. Nothing matters.â
LĂĄzaro, who just a second ago was trying to stuff ice into his shirt, stares at him with narrowed eyes.
âHey, are you even listening to me? I just told you I love you very much.â He pouts ridiculously. âYou can't come out with your existential crisis now. Priorities, Gabi.â
Gabriel completely ignores his comment and continues talking, gesticulating more and more. âYou know what the worst part is? Before, at least, there was a purpose. There was a reason. But now I'm here, in this mediocre bar, with a drunk on top of me and a bartender who probably hates me, wondering when my existence lost its direction.â
The bartender blinks. He opens his mouth to say something. He closes it. He turns away and starts cleaning a glass, pretending Gabriel isn't there.
âI don't hate you,â he murmurs finally, trying not to lose the tip.
LĂĄzaro wobbles on his stool and cups Gabriel's face in his cold hands.
âYouâŚâ he says with drunken solemnity, âneed another drink.â
âI need to get hit by a truck,â Gabriel corrects him.
âHey, no, not that.â LĂĄzaro slaps him clumsily across the face a couple of times. âI told you I love you, you can't die now. It would be super depressing.â
âMy existence is already depressing.â
âYeah, but more so. And I don't like it when you get like this. You're not funny.â The vampire places both hands on Gabriel's shoulders, looking at him as if he's about to give a motivational speech.
âLĂĄzaro, let go of me,â Gabriel says through gritted teeth.
âDon't ignore me in my moment of vulnerability!â
Suddenly, a new idea flashes through LĂĄzaro's drunken mind. With unexpected agility, he tries to climb onto the bar, probably intending to deliver a dramatic speech about the meaning of existence to cheer up the angel.
He fails spectacularly.
He slips mid-climb and falls backward, hitting a chair with a thud. Gabriel doesn't even flinch. The bartender barely glances over, without moving from his spot.
âIs he dead?â
âNo.â Gabriel raises the glass to his lips.
LĂĄzaro gets back up, his dignity shattered but his spirit undiminished. He dusts himself off and, in an attempt to regain his authority, points at a random man in the bar.
âYou!â he exclaims, staggering. âI challenge you to a duel.â
The man looks at him in bewilderment before returning to his conversation.
LĂĄzaro frowns.
âA duel of dramatic poses!â he tries again.
Nothing.
âOr dancing!â The vampire is already doing ridiculous spins, convinced he's putting on a masterful show. No one is paying him any attention. Hurt in his pride, he returns to Gabriel with a noticeable pout.
âLife is just noise,â the angel explains to the bartender, who already looks traumatized. âWe're always looking for something to give us purpose, something that makes sense. But the truth is... the truth is there's nothing, just noise and more noise. What we call âmeaningâ is just a distraction from facing reality: that we're empty. Always empââ
âGABIII!â LĂĄzaro interrupts abruptly, with a ridiculous shout. It seems he's recovered his spirits for the umpteenth time.
Gabriel closes his eyes and exhales with a patience he doesn't possess (because counting to ten doesn't work on the vampire). Slowly, he turns his head to look at him, as if he's hoping this is all a nightmare he can wake up from at any moment.
âWhat?â
LĂĄzaro grabs his hands with overflowing excitement, swaying his hips to a rhythm that makes no sense.
âLet's dance!â
âNo.â
âYes! You need to get moving!â The vampire is already spinning around (again), trying to drag Gabriel along with him.
âI'll pretend you didn't say that.â The angel pulls his hand away from LĂĄzaro and goes back to his drink. âAs I was saying...â
âCome on, Gabi!â LĂĄzaro shakes him insistently. âIt's for your own good!â
Gabriel is exasperated, and the cigarette he had lit is no longer between his fingers, but in the ashtray on the bar, half-extinguished from carelessness. The vampire persists, tugging at his arm, swinging back and forth with enthusiasm (and appalling coordination. He looks like a cross between a scarecrow and someone having a seizure). In a final, desperate effort to free himself, Gabriel rises from his stool, intending to throw him out of the bar once and for all.
But LĂĄzaro, now completely out of commission, trips over a table leg and falls straight onto Gabriel, clinging to him like a drunken koala. They both end up back in their seats, with LĂĄzaro practically hanging off his shoulder. The angel, defeated, lets him be. He knows that if he pushes him away, LĂĄzaro will only find an even more irritating way to stick to him. So he sits there, motionless.
âWellâŚâ Gabriel rubs his temples. âLooks like we're not getting anywhere.â
âYou know what, Gabi?â the vampire stammers, his voice thick, burying his face in Gabrielâs coat. âI donât understand how you donât have more friends; you're very nice with me.â
The bartender chokes on his own laughter but hides it well by pretending to cough. Gabriel glares at him, but seeing the manâs discomfort, decides to ignore him. Then he sighs, finishes his drink, and covers his face with his hand.
That was the first thing Azazel had noticed, and even after all this time, it remained one of the most disappointing discoveries about the place; though not the only one. He shuffled along the dimly lit corridors without pausing to observe the unnaturally red wallsâas if someone had grown tired of painting halfway through and decided that, well, it was already hellish enoughâand headed to his cubicle, which was in Zone 3. There were several zones, because Hell was divided into departments and categories, just like any branch office in the human world, and he'd been assigned to one of the worst. If those in Zone 1 were the high-ranking demons, the spectacular-looking ones who tortured souls, those in Zone 3 wereâŚ
He walked past an endless row of booths where demons hunched over their computers whispered to each other as they typed with overly long fingernails.
Mediocre.
That was the word.
The demons in Zone 3 were a motley crew of mediocre ones.
And Azazel was no exception.
âSix hundred sixty-six thousand six hundred sixty-six souls,â he murmured, as if repeating the number made it more palatable.
That was his quota. To obtain six hundred sixty-six thousand six hundred sixty-six souls to cease being Lucifer's employee.
He slumped into the chair in front of his deskâwhich protested with a long, plaintive creakâand rested his hands on either side of the keyboard. He was ready to continue investigating the human whose soul he was to acquire that day. Because yes: before entering the human world, before the carefully crafted temptations and the contracts impossible to refuse, there was the paperwork.
No one mentioned that part in the stories, but it was no less true: demons didn't improvise; they searched for information on their victims in the infernal database, from desires to small, shameful longings that humans would never admit aloud, and from there they crafted tailor-made offers. That was how Azazel collected souls, and he could confirm that the strategy worked because he was getting closer and closer to reaching his quota.
And that meantâŚ
That all of this would end.
He exhaled in relief and pressed the power button. A second passed, then two. Azazel knew his computer was slowâdesperately slow, even by infernal standardsâbut it always ended up booting up.
Five seconds passed. The screen remained black.
Azazel's brow furrowed instinctively as he noticed crumbs scattered across the desk, clustered around the keyboard as if someone had been eating there. Before he could fully process it, he sensed a presence behind him.
A presence he knew all too well.
âZel!â
Azazel closed his eyes. He didn't want to turn around.
But he did anyway.
Malthus, his screeching-voiced, unnerving colleague, was leaning against the cubicle wall with a smile that, in itself, was a confession. He was holding a crumpled bag in his hands, and the crumbs on the desk now seemed much less mysterious.
âBefore you say anything,â he said, taking a conciliatory step toward him, âI want you to know it was an accident.â Azazel remained silent because, although it was a bit of a nuisance, the crumbs werenât a real problem. Except Malthus wasnât referring to crumbs. âYou see, I was using your compuââ
âUsing my what?â
âYour computer,â he repeated, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. âAnd a message popped up saying I had to accept cookies to read a news article. So, obviously, I accepted. But⌠the cookies didnât appear.â
The other demon waited for the punchline, but there wasnât one.
âSo?â he pressed.
âWell,â Malthus gestured vaguely with his hand, âI got a little angry... and I might have hit the computer. Nothing serious.â
Azazel's gaze fell to the device's casing, where a prominent dent marred the metal. Instinctively, he began to twist the ring adorning his finger. The ring, despite being too simple for infernal tastes, and too human for this place, still held the power to soothe him. He thought of her; of the fact that she was alive. Yes, he couldn't ask for more. A dent wasn't the end of the world; he could survive that. He just needed to breathe.
âBut donât worry,â his teammate added, interrupting his attempt at self-calm; âI fixed it.â
âWhat do you mean you fixed it?â
âI reflected and realized Iâd been really rude. So, to make amends, I shared my own cookies with the computer.â
A shiver ran through Azazel. No. No, no, no. The tip of his tail twitched, whipping the air. There was no need for him to say more; he already knew exactly what he had done.
Slowly, with an awful feeling of dread, Azazel crouched in front of the cabinet, his horns brushing the edge of the desk as he lowered his head. Opening the DVD drive, he found a broken and crumbled lemon cookie. The fragments were scattered all over the compartment; it would take ages to clean it up.
âDid you... put a cookie... in the disc drive?â
Malthus nodded, still smiling, and Azazel wanted to strangle him with his bare hands. He was about to, in fact, until he remembered the clause against attacking coworkers. Reluctantly, he had to keep his hands away from the idiot's neck.
âI wanted the computer to know I was sorry,â he explained, leaning in slightly to look inside the machine. âBut I donât think it likes lemon cookies. Maybe if I try chocolate onesâŚâ
This shouldn't have surprised him. After all, he was facing the same demon who, upon receiving a âYour Internet connection is limitedâ message, had concluded that something physical was blocking the connection. His solution had been to repeatedly bang on the modem, convinced he was âfreeingâ it from a spiritual barrier or curse; however, the result was that a large part of Hell was left without internet for hours.
He took one last look at the computer, whose keyboard had been faulty since the âPress any key to continueâ incidentâan event in which Malthus, unable to find any key called âany,â had pounded on them all in growing frustrationâand concluded that there was nothing he could do.
He sat up stiffly, his tail dragging lightly along the ground before rising again, fractious.
âShall we go to the service workshop?â Malthus was peering over his shoulder and watching as, once all the cables were disconnected, he carried the cabinet in his arms.
Azazel left the cubicle without answering. The constant murmur of Zone 3 seemed to transmute as he advanced; the lights flickered, never quite steady. But none of it was as irritating as Malthus, who kept skipping ahead, talking to no one, pointing in obvious directions, pacing backâas if Azazel needed directions to the repair shop afterâŚ! How long? Years? Decades? Time in Hell was another thing that no one had bothered to explain to him properly.
A delicious thud echoed throughout the place, and Azazel gloated maliciously when he discovered the source of the sound: Malthus's face smashing against a closed glass door. Oh, God forgive him!, but at that moment Azazel believed that he truly deserved to have been turned into a demon.
* * *
After leaving the computer at the repair shopâa place overflowing with piles of broken junk that looked like they had survived several wars; and that smelled of reheated coffee that could revive a dead man, only to kill him againâand swearing time and again to the employee, a creature with multiple eyes and nonexistent patience, that he had not been the idiot who had the brilliant idea of ââputting a cookie in the disc drive, Azazel had no choice but to ascend to the human world knowing practically nothing about his victim's desires or fears.
The computer would be ready in a few hours, they'd told him, in a tone so apathetic that in Hell it would have been a variable eternity; and he couldn't afford to wait. He'd have to do it the old-fashioned way.
Before leaving, however, he prepared himself. It wasn't a complex process, but it was meticulous. Standing before a narrow, slightly distorted mirror, Azazel noticed that his small horns were sticking out from his dark hair, enough to give him away if one knew what to look for; so he concealed them by arranging a few strands. His tail was still as restless as ever, and he had no choice but to wrap it around his leg in an attempt to calm it.
The suit was a deliberate choice; it was gray and forgettable.
When he finished, he looked up at his reflection and saw someone decent. It was true that he had a slightly suspicious air about him, but he looked quite similar to who he had once been. An ordinary man.
(A man he no longer was.)
Upon leaving Hell, Azazel found himself beneath a blue sky, crowned by a sun that caressed his skin. It was a beautiful afternoon, and since he didn't have the opportunity to escape that organized cesspool that was Hell every day, he decided to allow himself a few minutes before going in search of his victim. He walked aimlessly, letting his steps lead him through quiet streets, lined with trees that seemed oblivious to the existence of places where time stood still and despair was systematic; and, in the meantime, he began to think about when had been the last time he had wandered through plazas for sheer pleasure. The answer was obvious: when his beloved had not yet been diagnosed with her illness. When he had not yet begged Lucifer, on his knees and in despair, to do something to cure her; when Lucifer, the Great Leader, the Light-Bearer, the Morning Star, the Prince of Darkness, had not yet offered him a deal: to give up his own humanity, to become his servant, in exchange for her life. He hadn't hesitated; he had never regretted it; not even now. Because she was alive, and that was all that mattered to him.
Yes, it had been a long time since he'd gone out for a stroll; but today, at least, he had the chance to see a landscape free of blood, to hear the breeze and not heart-rending screams, toâ
Splash!
The stagnant water, hidden beneath a loose tile, splashed out violently, splattering his pants and seeping into his shoes. All the calm he had tried to cultivate over the last few minutes crumbled in an instant.
Screw walking.
The parking lot wasn't far.
With an irritation he no longer bothered to hide, Azazel reached his car and started the engine; then he activated the navigation app, whose screen indicated the location of the soul he was to reap. As the GPS began to deliver directions, he turned on the radio. The first station was a hit in the infernal circles: agonized screams mixed with heavy metal. He changed it. The next was a motivational talk about entrepreneurship and self-improvement. He changed it even faster. Then, laughter. Endless, manic laughter, devoid of context, repeating on a loop. Next. And then, finally, something decent: a soft melody, with ukulele chords and a sweet voice speaking of flowers and sunsets; of days that get better with patience.
He let the song play.
Once he spotted the designated houseâone of those suburban buildings that seemed designed to blend in, with an unkempt garden that suggested a lack of time or effortâhe turned off the engine and, after adjusting his jacket (which still smelled of damp), got out of the car.
He rang the front doorbell once. Nothing.
He rang again. People always made him wait, even when he was trying to do what they asked: grant wishes!
The door opened, and out emerged a girl whose expression was that of someone who had had enough of the world for today; she was neither curious nor surprised.
When Azazel's mouth opened, ready to utter what he thought would be an irresistible offer to a soul like hers, she simply slammed the door shut. Just like that. Right in his face.
How audacious.
He pressed the doorbell again, this time without the initial politeness, and kept his finger on it a little longer than necessary.
âHey!â he called. âDon't you want to hear what I have to say?â
The door opened again, not all the way, just enough for the young woman to peek her head in, annoyed.
âLook, I've had enough of door-to-door salesmen peddling junk. I don't want vacuum cleaners, or Bibles, or subscriptions, or whatever it is you're bringing.â And, just as quickly, she tried to slam the door shut again. Azazel placed his foot between the door and the frame, stopping her attempt.
âIâm not selling anything,â he objected, more seriously. âAnd Iâm not a salesman. Iâm⌠a demon.â
He knew perfectly wellâbecause it had been repeated to him ad nauseam in trainingâthat he shouldnât reveal his nature immediately, that the process required subtlety and gradual manipulation, that first came the desire, then the crack, and finally the offer; but Azazel was wet and wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.
The young woman looked him up and down, paused at his rigid posture, and then burst out laughing.
âA demon? Sure, and I'm the Queen of Hell!â she mocked, rolling her eyes.
Perfect. Another human with a sense of humor, just what he needed. There was no contract without credibility, and in that state, he didn't project the image of a âfearsome infernal entity.â
It was time for Plan B.
âListen to me, Clara.â He considered that saying her name was a rather ominous start, since she hadn't told him. âI'm going to show you something that will change your life.â
There was a long silence, then:
âMy name isn't Clara.â
Ah.
âI mean⌠Celeste,â he corrected himself quickly, though his voice had already lost some of its initial confidence. Heâd read it in the report just a few days ago; how could he have forgotten? It must have been nerves, or the exhaustion of carrying the cabinetâŚ
âYes, Celeste. What a coincidence that two seconds ago you thought it was Clara.â
Azazel needed to pull himself together. If that human wouldn't believe him with words, she'd believe his demonic nature with actions. After all, he had skills and could improvise. He would summon a hellish creature, something small but no less impactful. A⌠dragon, perhaps. Yes. A dragon was a good idea.
He straightened up slightly and, with renewed vigor, recited a series of arcane words that, under normal circumstances, would have opened a direct channel to the lower levels of Hell. However, a few seconds passed, and when there was no flash or the slightest whiff of sulfur, he tried to convince himself that the creature was busy. Very busy.
He cleared his throat in an attempt to appear as though he had everything under control.
âLook, buddy,â the young woman blurted out, no longer bothering to hide her impatience, âI donât know what youâre trying to do, but Iâm occupied.â She made a move to close the door.
âWait!â He was desperate; he couldnât just leave like that. Because if he did, heâd have to go back to Hell, to Zone 3, to the cubicles, to Lucifer.
He thought quickly. What was the most classic thing? Ah, right! The lights. A surefire classic. Making the lights explode, like in a horror movie.
âI warned you,â he said, focusing his energy on the house, visualizing each bulb shattering into a thousand pieces. He could feel it, his will coursing through the wires and the filaments tensing until they crackled. He braced himself for the shower of glass.
A meager porch light barely flickered.
âThat was me.â Azazel pointed at the lightbulb with a certainty that was completely unfounded. He even allowed himself a small smile.
Celeste rolled her eyes. âOr maybe it's about time I changed the lightbulb.â
Just then, when Azazel didn't know what else to do to get the girl to believe him and move on to the part where she would give him her soul, his cell phone rang. He signaled to her, as if to say, âWait a second, this is important,â and answered.
âZel, it's Malthus. They finished repairing your computer and I went to pick it up, but I think it's still having some issues. Is it normal that it just shut down out of nowhere and smells likeâŚâ Malthus's sniffing could be heard on the other end of the line⌠âburnt?â
âWhat did you do?â Azazel growled.
âI got a notification that the storage space was insufficient, so I had to help it free up some space.â
âDid you delete any files?â
âNo, no, nothing like that.â Azazelâs relief was immediate. Fatally premature, because his coworker added, âI started removing things from the case: fans, the processor⌠you know, to make it feel lighter. If it weighs less, it has more space, right?â
The other remained silent for a moment, processing what he had just heard, and when he understood, all he could manage to say was:
âWHAT?â
Meanwhile, the girl was looking at him the way one looks at a complete lunatic.
He was definitely looking like a damn lunatic. And, frankly, Azazel was beginning to doubt that he wasn't.
âMalthus,â he whispered through gritted teeth, âwhen I get back, I assure you Iâll lock you in a dark corner and get rid of the key.â He hung up and turned to Celeste, who was still there, the door ajar. âNow, where were we?â
It was clear this wasn't going to be as easy as he thought. But Celeste's soul would be his. Even if he had to tear it out with his bare hands.
One last idea occurred to him. It wasn't brilliant, nor particularly original, but it had one thing in its favor: it was simple. He would make an object float.
He just needed something small and light, an object that wouldn't drain what little energy he had left, but visible enough so that its effect wouldn't go unnoticed. His eyes scanned the house and landed on the small vase on the entryway table.
Perfect.
No one could ignore a floating vase.
He concentrated and tried to do what he had been taught, what had worked so many times when he was not soaked, or irritated, or being watched by a clearly unimpressive human: empty his mind, allow the magic to flow through his veins like caffeine.
However, no matter how hard he tried to focus, he couldn't banish the anxieties that plagued his mind. The computer ripped open, disassembled piece by piece; Malthus ripping out the processor, the smell of burning, the infernal workshop, the employee looking at him as if he were personally responsible for the technological decay of all of Hell, Lucifer treating him like a piece of garbage, the quota, the figures, the six hundred and sixty-six thousand six hundred and sixty-six souls, Zone 3, the cubicles, the crumbs, the laughter, Malthus laughing, always laughing, and there he was, trapped, hating almost everyone, hating the system, hating the bureaucracy of punishment, hatingâ
No.
No.
Not that.
His tail tensed as if trying to shake the thoughts from his body, and Azazel forced himself to push his noisy worries aside and enforce inner silence. Then, only when nothing remained but a blank space held by sheer willpower, did he feel it. The vase vibrated, and if at first it was barely a tremor, then it slid an inch, then another, separating from the tabletop, defying the gravity he was, at last, managing to bend to his advantage. A little more. Just a little more andâ
Bzzz. Bzzz.
The buzzing of his cell phone broke his concentration like a kick in the stomach, and the vase fell with a thud onto the table, wobbling before coming to rest as if nothing had happened.
Azazel was ready to throw his phone against the wall. He pulled it out furiously, prepared to yell at whoever it was... But it wasn't a call. It was an alarm. âTime for yoga. Take a deep breath,â the screen said.
Azazel stared at the message for a long second, then let out a short laugh. Take a deep breath. Ha! If only he could take a deep breath without wanting to set something on fire. His finger pressed down on the screen harder than necessary, and the glass cracked under the pressure, becoming a useless mosaic of fragments.
âYou should...â Celeste began.
âDon't even think about telling me to have some linden tea.â
âNo,â she replied, pointing behind him. âYou should turn around.â
Azazel did it, and he saw his car. Or, rather, his car driving away, because someone was stealing it.
The vehicle, which was the only thing he had left to control that day, turned the corner and disappeared from sight. The demon didn't run; he stayed there, standing with his unusable cell phone in his pocket and a human who didn't believe a word he said. He exhaled. He could persist, he could try again, and again, and again, improvise, force, push the situation until something gave way⌠But the accumulation of things not going as they shouldâthat never went as they shouldâmade the idea seem exhausting.
âAnother day,â he murmured, more to himself than to her, in a voice that had lost all intention of asserting itself. Today he was in no position to close any deals. And so, with his pants still wet and his pride shattered, under the calm light of a day that had nothing diabolical about it, he returned to Hell.
đŠ¸Vampire hematologists. Instead of using a microscope, they can tell if a human has deficiencies just by tasting their blood.
đŠ¸Vampire dentists. They ensure vampires have good oral health, which includes making sure their fangs look good/are sharp enough to maximize efficiency when biting.
đŠ¸Pharmaceutical vampire trying to create synthetic blood because there is a human blood shortage.
đŠ¸A vampire whose vocabulary consists of centuries-old slang combined with modern terms.
đŠ¸Vampire who makes coffins (both single and double, in case there's a vampire marriage).
đŠ¸A vampire, now that mirrors are no longer made of silver, sees their reflection after many centuries and discovers that they hate their appearance.
đŠ¸Vampire who opens their own chain of restaurants and sells human food mixed with blood: red velvets, bloody mary, pomegranate juice. No mortal knows why the restaurant is only open at night and all the dishes are red.
đŠ¸Vampires who must take vitamins because blood does not have all the necessary nutrients to survive.
đŠ¸A vampire hunter who becomes a vampire themselves but doesn't abandon their profession. Now they teach human hunters firsthand about the weaknesses and powers of vampires.
đŠ¸Vampires who have to pee every other minute. (Because bats are so small that they have to urinate to remove all the water out of the blood, otherwise they would be too heavy to fly afterwards.)
đŠ¸Vampires who get fake tans/apply a lot of makeup to look less pale.
After I joined in on a tag game without being tagged, the amazing @winterandwords tagged me in an acrostic WIP tag game! Yay! I'm so grateful she didn't give me another long word like what she ended up getting, because oh boy, these are harder than I thought.
But, without further ado...I'll use my upcoming release, đ¸đđđđđđĽđđđ.
Note: Current draft is in second person. This may not reflect the final state of the piece--we will see what the wonderful people beta reading the piece think of it.
C. Cybele loomed over you, her long curly hair so like yours spilling from its gilded braids, her grey eyes lined with kohl. She scooped Attisâs slumbering body with one strong arm and knelt to tuck a lock of hair behind your ear.
âYou nearly made it to Thrace this time,â she said in her lightly-accented voice, watching you with a small smirk as my consciousness faded, âIâm almost impressed.â
R. Remember that, Theseus. Promise me that youâll do as you said, and talk to him. Call him by his true name.â
You nodded. âI will.â
She cocked her head, studying you. âPhaedra thinks youâre a fool, but I see what you are, Theseus. We are the same, in many ways.â
E. Even if you knew his body was special, different from yours. âI donât want to. Iâm not like other boys.â
Phaedra scoffed. âYeah, thatâs because youâre not one. Iâve been saying that for years.â
A. Adgistis had just smiled, as if hearing your thoughts. You want a trade? Theyâd said. Iâll give you a trade. I donât love them as much, but I do love them. Is that enough? And it had to be. The goddess Cybele, their sister of sorts, now rested in Elysium, entombed in a tree as sheâd done to Attis. Youâd offered Tartarus. Adgistis refused. Youâd understood. Things were more complicated with family.
T. The day before they left, a boat full of refugees blew onto Sarpedonâs shores. They begged to gods you already knew were dead, their voices barely audible over the crashing of the waves. The snakes heard them through your feet, the rumbling of the boat crashing into the rocks travelling up the rocky cliffside to their senses. Your sisters laughed as they descended upon them, shredding terrified, quivering flesh in their talons. You caught the eyes of the youngest passenger and petrified him before they could tear him apart. It seemed kinder.
E. Even the beasts of the wastes had avoided you on your way back to the cabin, sensing the trepidation, sadness and frustration coming off of you in waves. You could not sleep. In your mind, you ran through the Godless Wastes and swam through the rivers. You tried to visualize hidden paths in and out of the wastes using a lifetime of knowledge. You couldnât think of a way out, not via land, nor water. You and Ats would have to die to escape.
I'll tag @writingwithoutconfidence @jaylex05 @missnaomijean-writes @purple-on-black& @destinycraftswords since I think(?) you folks are okay with tag games. And @blades-of-calmoran, because I will keep doing this until you build up your confidence to post <3 Your word is STARK.
I'll use my short stories of Ayla and Veyru because I haven't mentioned them in a while...
Note: The POV changes from 3rd person and 1st person depending on which short story I choose, but it's usually focusing on Ayla to clear any doubts
S. Spines relaxed, shoulders unknotted, the terrible tension that had lived in its spine since the first night it dragged me here finallyâmercifullyâslipped out through the tip of its tail. It bowed until our foreheads touched. âI never had a name before,â it whispered. âNot one anyone wanted to keep.â
T. "The crabs were gone. I thoughtâI thought you would be sleeping, or sorting moss, or doing any of the small things you do when you think yourself alone." His ears twitched, lifted. "I did not think you would be fighting a war."
"It wasn't a war."
"No?" His head tilted, that questioning gesture she loved. "You stood against your mother's voice. You stood against every warning ever sung to keep children in their places. You stoodâ" His voice cracked, that river-ice sound, "âand you won."
A. Ayla spoke before she could register what she was about to say. "I'm not Sera. I'm borrowing her. I'm dead, Marta. I died in a cave with a monster who loved me, and the magic sent me here to drink what I missed, but I don't want to drink it. I want to find him. I want to tell him he was enough. That I would choose him again, always, forever, even when the magic offers me thisâ" she gestured at the house, the porch, the life that should have been hers, "âeven when it's warm and good and easy, I would choose the hard thing we built together."
Marta stared. The peas scattered, rolling into the dust. Then: "The Rite of Return."
R. "Remember where I am. Come back in a year, in five, when you are grown and have your own weight to carry. Ask me again. If I say yes then, you'll know I was lying now. If I say noâ" She closed his fingers around the metal. "âyou'll know I had something worth keeping."
Elias looked at the key, at her, at the monster in the cave-mouth who had not moved, who had let her speak, who had let her offer.
K. Knowing the shape of what I had to say, I finally looked at him. "Anything a human does can be cruel or kind. The same hands. The same mind. Curiosity builds shelters and invents weapons. Creativity paints caves and designsâ" I stopped. Swallowed. "Designs massacres. Nothing about us is proof."
"Then there is no such thing as human goodness," Veyru said.
"There is," I replied. "But it isn't a trait. It's a decision. One you have to keep making, even when no one is watching."
I don't really know the proper rules of this game, so I'm going to assume you have to either do a sentence for each letter or a small scene.
Tagging: @alexazucchie @justluchii @ponderingpen @penningbookwurm and @orcaraminga. And @temisjanaina because I really want to read your writing and I 110% believe it isn't as bad as you say it is. C'mon give this a go!
I used various scenes that don't appear in the book, so you can consider this a sneak peek at bonus content!
Note: Since the scenes are from different texts, there is one metanarrative with the presence of the writer, another narrated from the perspective of LĂĄzaro, and another in the third person, which is the narration I have used in the book.
T. The writer, in their boundless laziness, has decided that Notre Dame isn't worth it. I mean, sure, it's a majestic cathedral, steeped in history, Gothic art, Victor Hugo himself wrote a novel about it⌠But that would require writing a scene there. And that, honestly, is a lot of work.
Besides, Gabriel flatly refused to go inside.
âI wonât set foot in that damned church,â he had said, with the conviction of someone who definitely had unresolved issues with his celestial past.
R. Â Rat. That little shadow on the nightstand was a rat.
âWeâre leaving this hotel right now,â Gabriel declared, standing up.
âOh, donât exaggeââ The rat jumped to the floor and began moving toward LĂĄzaro.
The vampire let out an inhuman shriek and leaped onto the bed with a ridiculous bound, grabbing Gabrielâs arm. âDO SOMETHING!â
âWhy me? Youâre an immortal vampire, not a damsel in distress!â
U. âUnless you want me to, I won't bite you.â My reassurance comes with another smile; this time one where my fangs are visible, just enough to provoke him. Something tells me he likes them. That they bother him, yes, but that he likes them. âI promise.â
T. To make him believe me, I slip inside and settle in naturally. Although I lost the need to breathe the day death decided to take an interest in me, that doesn't stop me from letting out an exaggerated, satisfied sigh. What can I say? There's nothing more comfortable than a coffin.
H. His pulse, so strange at first, becomes a steady presence under my senses. I wonder if what runs through his veins is truly blood or light or ichor or whatever substance such a beautiful creature is composed of. I could analyze it, I could dissect it into theories; but I don't want to. Not tonight. I'm content to brush my lips against his skin. A chaste, almost academic touch⌠if one were to lie to oneself.
Someday I'll find someone to tag, just give me time lol
