Love Sucks! My Halloween Ghost Story...takes place in a little bar in Montmarte, Paris...

Hi everyone!

If you're looking for Joy Campbell's blog tour post, it's one down!!!!!

It's time for those Halloween creepy stories. Here's one of my stories I posted three years ago for RomanticFridayWriters. I've had a fresh look at it, revamped it, lol, and post for your reading pleasure. I really love these guys!

When you’ve lived on this earth for 400+ years you crave excitement. I was done with sleeping all day in a dark room with the velvet drapes drawn, hiding from the sun, waking up to microwaved blood. 

What’s a vamp to do all century?

Haunt the streets? 

That gets so old after awhile.

I slammed the hotel door and sashayed along Montmarte’s glitter strip, my current Parisian suburb of interest. Tourists gawking, homeless hawking, blackboard artist chalking. "ETERNITY". Cool. Same old, same old. Then right next door to Moulin Rouge, I saw it: ‘A VENDRE’. 

My synapses zapped. My planets aligned. A contract to sign.

I’d accumulated a tidy sum over the centuries, you know. Compound interest compounds, so before you could say ‘More blood and make it quick,’ the business belonged to moi.

The little bar was perfect -- vamp chic – blood-red carpet, black walls, red bar counter, black furniture. Suited my little black er, heart. The pictures clinched the deal – horror-movie posters proclaimed murder and mayhem on every wall. 

Now I no longer have to prowl the mean streets at night. I got me a hidey-hole. 

‘Ya not going to run this place all by yaself, are ya?’

I turned from admiring my Dracula poster which was a bit like looking in the mirror, black cloak and super handsome face, but like, wow! Look what's just promenaded down my little 15th Century wonky stairs! Flowing black tresses, lush curves poured into a little black dress, black fishnet stockings. Oh so tastee.

‘You offering to help, er, miss?’

“Ya, moi, who else d’ya see? I thought those black glasses were just for show.’

‘You know bar work? You look, like twelve. Show me some ID.’ 

I was only kidding but she whipped out the plastic.

‘Looks can be deceiving. You look, like, nineteen.’ 

She winked at me, cheeky minx.

I flipped the ID back to her. Fake as, who cared? 

I want this girl-child.

‘What d’ya think? I been working bars for many a year. Know some tricks.’

‘It’s not that kind of bar. It’ll be a clean operation.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Drink, tapas, music…’

‘Boring as. But I can be boring if ya want.’

 ‘What’s your name?’ I clasped her black-gloved hand. ‘I’m Drack Kulah.’

‘Really?’ 

‘Really.’

‘Well I’m Ruby Black, but go by -’

‘Snow White?’

‘Right on Drak. Hilaarrious. So, whatcha think?’

‘You’re hired. No funny business or you’ll be out on your pretty butt.’

‘My butt’s pretty?’ She twirled, black lacy dress flowing like waves, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of shapely snow-white leg and a flash of lacy black knickers. Pity about those ugly Doc Marten’s.

‘You want stilettos, you got stilettos,’ she smirked, ‘but that’s not all I got.’ She sidled up and grabbed me around the neck. Her gloved fingers stroked my black curls.

Who needs to go hunting? She was mine, right here, right now. A gift.

I took her in my steely arms, aiming for the jugular, then…wow! She's got no throbbing pulse! 

That was that then. Of course I knew the minute she walked in...

At least one female in the bar's out of temptation’s way.

Bring on the next one...

Click on the names in my sidebar for more Ghost Stories...or go to Write...Edit...Publish.

Thanks for reading!

Go here for creepy freebies!

JESSICA BELL'S 'WHITE LADY' BLOG TOUR. WEP'S GHOST STORY HALLOWEEN PROMPT.

Hi my friends!

You've probably come across Jessica Bell's blog tour promoting her new novel, White Lady. Here are a couple of teasers from her excellent psychological thriller.

GUESS THE TRUE STATEMENT; WIN JESSICA BELL'S THRILLER, WHITE LADY! (Statement #63)

To celebrate the release of Jessica Bell's latest novel, WHITE LADY, she is giving away an e-copy (mobi, ePub, or PDF) to the first person to correctly guess the one true statement in the three statements below. To clarify, two statements are lies, and one is true:

Jessica Bell has a dog. It is a ...
a. Pointer
b. Black Labrador
c. Dalmatian

What do you think? Which one is true? Write your guess in the comments, along with your email address. Comments will close in 48 hours. If no-one guesses correctly within in 48 hours, comments will stay open until someone does.

Want more chances to win? You have until October 31 to visit all the blogs where Jessica will share a different set of true and false statements on each one. Remember, each blog is open to comments for 48 hours only from the time of posting.

If you win, you will be notified by email with instructions on how to download the book.

Click HERE to see the list of blogs.

ABOUT THE BOOK:

*This novel contains coarse language, violence, and sexual themes.

Sonia yearns for sharp objects and blood. But now that she's rehabilitating herself as a "normal" mother and mathematics teacher, it's time to stop dreaming about slicing people's throats.

While being the wife of Melbourne's leading drug lord and simultaneously dating his best mate is not ideal, she's determined to make it work.

It does work. Until Mia, her lover's daughter, starts exchanging saliva with her son, Mick. They plan to commit a crime behind Sonia's back. It isn't long before she finds out and gets involved to protect them.

But is protecting the kids really Sonia's motive?

Click HERE to view the book trailer.
Click HERE for purchase links.

Jessica Bell, a thirty-something Australian-native contemporary fiction author, poet and singer/songwriter/guitarist, is the Publishing Editor of Vine Leaves Literary Journal and the director of the Homeric Writers' Retreat & Workshop on the Greek island of Ithaca. She makes a living as a writer/editor for English Language Teaching Publishers worldwide, such as Pearson Education, HarperCollins, MacMillan Education, Education First and Cengage Learning.

Connect with Jessica online:

Website | Retreat & workshop | Blog | Vine Leaves Literary Journal | Facebook | Twitter

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Check out Write...Edit...Publish for October. The challenge is Ghost Story - flash fiction, non-fiction, poetry, artwork, photo essay...your choice. You can sign up now in my sidebar! Thank you.

Thank you for visiting today. 

Thank you for supporting fellow blogger, Jessica Bell. 

Thank you for supporting me by participating in the WEP October blogfest.

#RomanticFridayWriters - We Love Lovers - fan fiction challenge - Wuthering Heights - Heathcliff, the Byronic Hero, and Cathy

Fan fiction (alternatively referred to as fanfiction, fanfic, FF, or simply fic) is a broadly-defined term for stories about characters or settings written by fans of the original work, rather than by the original creator.      Wikipedia

This month's RomanticFridayWriters challenge is writing fan fiction. As it is Valentine's month, Donna Hole and I named the challenge - We Love Lovers. Not all entries may reflect lovers past or present, but I've always been fascinated by Scarlett and Rhett, Elizabeth and Darcy, Heathcliff and Cathy...thus, my entry...a monologue...an additional scene from Wuthering Heights with a twist.

Heathcliff is one of the Byronic Heroes. You can read my post comparing him to Edward from Twilight here if you're interested. I did a series on these brooding heroes in the past. Here is an excerpt from one of my posts:

We all love him or hate him – he’s the tall, dark brooding hero. The Byronic hero, based on the fictional characters of author Lord Byron, is a mysterious man, intelligent, sophisticated, educated, magnetic, charismatic, socially and sexually dominant while at the same time being detached from human society. We suffer his moods accompanied by his bouts of temper. His past is often troubled and he is riddled with self-destructive secrets. 

Lord Byron himself, according to his lover Lady Caroline Lamb, was ‘mad, bad and dangerous to know.’ Recent examples of this type include Batman, Dr Gregory House from the television series House, MD, and the late actor James Dean. 

The Byronic hero is sometimes called an anti-hero because of his negative qualities. Gilbert and Gubar compare him to a bewitching monster like Milton’s Satan – “He is in most ways the incarnation of worldly male sexuality, fierce, powerful, experienced, simultaneously brutal and seductive, devilish enough to overwhelm the body and yet enough a fallen angel to charm the soul.” 

DISCLAIMER: "Mt story 'Who is the Ghost Now?' is a work of fan fiction using characters from Wuthering Heights, the 1847 novel by Emily Brontë. The story below is a work of my imagination and I do not claim ownership of the story or the characters. I will not profit financially from this work. Thank you Emily Bronte for your contribution to the world of literature."

Who’s the Ghost Now?

Can you hear the wind blowing in from the mountain peaks? Can you see the grey glint of snow in the faraway clouds? Can you feel the ice crunching under your feet? 

No! Your thoughts are elsewhere!

You are so infatuated with Edgar Linton you’ve forgotten everything else!

You never invited me to your special day! Why? Were you afraid I’d create a scene?

Cathy! How could you do this? You love me, I know you love me! At least you used to love me. When did that change?

I never saw this betrayal coming.

We’ve loved each other since we were children, ever since your father adopted me and treated me as part of the family after your mother died. Everyone treated me with kindness except your nasty brother Hindley. How he loved to torment me, just because I was different. And just because I was so much stronger, more useful to father than he was. But I was never good enough to be his brother—father should have left me in the gutter to rot and Hindley would have been happy.

But Cathy, my darling, how could you desert me? How could you give yourself to another man? I could bear it if he was worthy of you, but he’s not! I could forgive a little flirtation while I was away overseas bettering myself, but marriage! Cathy! We were meant for each other! It is you and I who should be marrying today!

Old Ellen caught me at the door last night. A whiff of me anyway as I passed through. Gave her a shock I'm telling you, ha ha.  Couldn't resist revealing myself to her--even asked her for the key to the roof. She was unhappy to oblige.

I can be so-o-oo persuasive.

Now I have you in my sights. I see you and that loathsome crowd you hang around with. I hate how they touch you…how they fawn over you.

Enjoy their company while you can.

You, my Cathy, are a vision in white, pure as the driven snow. But we know better, don’t we? We have our secrets! Only you and I know what went on when we spread our cloaks on that carpet of soft spring flowers in the woodlands.

No one need ever know!

You’re leaving the house for the chapel. Look at those pathetic followers bowing and scraping to your every whim.  I’ll ignore how they press against you, brushing snow from your white cape and your beautiful hair. I want to kill them all!

My Cathy!

Do you love me?

Do you remember our days, carefree and wild, running on the moors like lambs in the springtime? How soft the grasses were as we collapsed in a heap of tangled arms and legs. How sweet the flowers were as I crushed you to myself, covering you with my cloak. How tender your body felt, as I caressed you through the soft stuff of your gown. Oh Cathy! You did love me! Why couldn’t you wait?

I was penniless, a nobody. Well, I made my fortune, just like you wanted. I’ve come back for you, but too late!  Was that dirty, ragged, black-haired gypsy not enough for you? Did you need the handsome, rich Mr Edgar Linton after all?

Cathy, you never loved me. To you I was just a wild child, someone to tame. After that visit to the Linton’s, you changed. You wanted the refined life, a life of silk frocks and fancy dinners -- not the life you’d have with Heathcliff, your savage!

Don’t leave me Cathy! 

Did I scream out loud? 

I see you turn towards my window.

I see the fright in your eyes.

Have you seen a ghost, Cathy?

Did you not think I’d return to claim you?

I see your confusion.

What a sight I must be. Some demented ghoul looking down on the wedding party. Someone who could tear you all apart in a moment.

But I will bide my time.

Don’t think marrying Linton is the end of our story, Cathy.

I’ll be back to claim what is rightfully mine. You’re part of me. We’ll never be parted. Never!

You love me, not Edgar Linton!

I hope you enjoyed  my monologue. 

Full Critique Acceptable
WORDS: 705

If you want to read/post fan fiction on the net, here is a link...

For other entries to this challenge, click on the names in my right-hand sidebar or click on the RFW link.

#RomanticFridayWriters challenge - Response to Image - My story, 'The Strange House in the Snow.'

Now that NaNo's over, RomanticFridayWriters is kicking off again with the first challenge for December, response to the image below. 600 words of prose or poetry with some element of romance. My romantic element may be hard to find, but it is there. Here is my story...

The Strange House in the Snow

The snow was exploding all around Yasmina and her mother by the time they reached the strange house in the woods. Yasmina looked up at the sky and saw a heap of tired old clouds with raggedy edges ripping apart, falling onto their heads like grey angels.

Yasmina watched her Mama trying to put the big key in the old lock. She slapped her ears with her mittens and watched the snowflakes scattering. ‘Stop it!’ Mama yelled.

Yasmina was freezing, even in the big warm coat the kind Red Cross lady had given her.

Creak! The door opened and they fell inside.

Mama dropped the suitcase onto the carpet and said a bad word. So many strange things...

The snow had followed them into the house. Bang! Mama kicked the big old door shut.

Yasmina ran to the window and looked up the road for Dada.

***

When Yasmina and her Mama had walked the long and lonely road to the house, the trees had scared her the way they lined up along the road in black rows like soldiers. She’d jumped with fright when the snow dropped off the branches and fell to the ground like bombs. Her Mama had pulled her from her hiding place and she’d cried: ‘I want my Dada!’

Mama had whispered, ‘I want your Dada too.’

‘Why did Dada leave us?’

‘He wanted to save us from the bad men.’

‘Do you still love Dada, Mama?’

‘I will love your Dada until I die, Yasmina. He is a wonderful man.’

‘Is Dada coming back, Mama?’

‘He will never leave us darling.’

***

‘Oh!’ Mama cried.

Yasmina turned from the window to see Mama slumped in the big stuffy chair, crying ‘Akbar, Akbar...’

‘Don’t cry Mama. Dada’ll never leave us.’ Yasmina patted the twitchy hand.

Yasmina decided to explore by herself coz when Mama got the sadness for Dada she liked to be left alone.

The house was big and empty. Not like the little house where they'd lived before Dada went away to fight the bad men.

She headed up the stairs. They went up so high she could be close to heaven if that’s where Dada was. The stairs groaned and cried louder than Mama. Spiders were knitting in the corners, trailing their threads down into the hall, their beady black eyes watching her.

She pushed open one of the doors. There was a big cobwebby window in the roof and she could see the snow whirling around the black treetops and - there was a shadow in the corner. 

She screamed.

Then…maybe…maybe…’Dada?’ She started to run and tripped on the ripped carpet.

‘Dada!’ Her flashlight clunked out of her pocket. She grabbed it and turned it on, but Dada had gone…again.

There was a big high bed with a lumpy quilt. She was so tired after the long walk. She undid the buttons of her coat, dropped it on the bed and jumped in.

It felt like sinking to the bottom of the earth on a puffy cloud.

‘Goodnight Dada,’ she whispered. ‘Please come back. Mama needs you.’

The snow whispered and rustled. She pulled the quilt higher over her head.

She was nearly asleep when she heard a voice – ‘Alima...Alima…Alima…’

Dada!  – ‘Alima...Alima…Alima…aaa…’ 

No one here knew her mother’s name, only Dada. Dada was downstairs with Mama. He’d come just like Mama said.

Then she felt it.

A hand crept into her hand.

Dada.

His hand felt cold. His fingers shook and curled into her palm, tickling, like when they played games at their home in the mountains.

She smiled in the dark. Dada's home. 

***

©DeniseCovey2011

Word count: 605. This is just a fun? story. MPA. Did you enjoy it or not?

Here is a list of suggestions for critiquing that Madeleine found if you're right into the critique. 

Go here to read more stories...

STOP PRESS: Just came across this weird and wonderful flash fiction contest which actually pays a tiny amount if you're published in their anthology.