little Funny Fictions:)

[intrige]

I agree.. Good night Drakkar

[a_contemplative_life]

This was posted a long time ago in an early thread called "Dear Eli; Dear Oskar," but I think it qualifies as a small piece of fan fiction. If memory serves, Wolf wrote the letter and I wrote the rest...


Dear Eli,

I read your letter. I knew that some day you would ask me. Sometimes I wonder if I am slowing you down. Are in danger because of me? I wonder if you would be safer if I weren't here or if I could keep you safe if I were like you. I would rather die than have anything happen to you because of me. Sometimes I think that maybe if I became like you, you would be safer. Also I don't know what will happen when I get older and it bugs me. Maybe you won't like me anymore when I grow up. If I could stay the same age as you then we could be together forever. That would be great. But I don't think I could be like you. I saw what you did to the man who found us in your apartment, and I saw what you did to Conny and Martin and Jimmy. I know that those are the kinds of things that you have to do to live. You can do those things because you are strong. I don't mean that living on blood makes you strong. I mean that you have be strong to live on blood.

For a while I thought that you were making me strong too. I stood up to Conny, and I even hit him with a stick. I thought that when I cut my hand for you it showed that I was strong, but it was really just stupid. When you left I was so sad. I didn't know what I was going to do, but I still thought that you had made me strong. Then at the pool when Conny showed up with his brother Jimmy all of a sudden I wasn't strong any more. I was weak again. I had always been weak. I was just pretending to be strong because I could tell that you were strong.

I want to be together with you forever, but I am scared that I am too weak to do what you do. I don't think that I could ever do it. I want more than anything to be with you forever. I think that I would do anything to stay with you but I'm afraid that if I actually had to I wouldn't be able to kill someone for their blood. I can't decide. I don't know whether to say yes or no. I guess that means that I'm weak too. I'm too weak to do what you do, but I'm also too weak to live without you. You are the one who is strong, so I need you to decide for me. So that is why I am writing you this letter.

You can be strong for me again. I'm going to go to sleep before you wake up. After you read this, you decide what to do and then come find me in the next room. If you decide to do it, even if I'm only pretending to be asleep, please don't talk to me - just do it. I hope it won't hurt too much. If you decide that I'm not strong enough, that's OK too. I promise that I'll still love you just as much and I'll stay with you as long as you want me to. As long as I can. I know that you could never make the wrong choice for me.

Love,
Oskar


He dreamed again that he and Eli were swinging at the playground, side by side. He wanted to show her how high he could go, and then do his trick for her. To let go at the top of the arc and land on his feet. They glanced at each other as they passed, exchanging excited grins.

The momentum increased as he pulled strongly on the cold chains going down, and threw his legs out going up. He saw dark snow, then stars; back and forth. Finally, at the top of the highest arc, he let go. But instead of plummeting to the earth, he continued to shoot through the air . . . and was flying. And then Eli was along side of him, arms outstretched, black hair streaming away from her face. Heart near to bursting with joy and exhilaration, he reached for her and took her hand--

He awoke to silence. Their room. Darkness--but not completely dark. Pale silver through the window, snowflakes on the pane dappling the shadows. He turned his head and saw a figure crouched beside the bed: Eli.

He began to speak, to say her name, but she pressed a finger to his lips. "Shhh."

A pause as she drew closer. The dredges of his sleep began to leave him, and her round, pale face swam into view. Eyes, as big as he had remembered them on the night they had first met--no, bigger, it seemed, for reasons he knew not. Dark pools with almost no irises that swallowed her face.

As she climbed onto the bed, he realized that she was wearing no top. Her shoulders gleamed, almost glowed, in the moonlight. Then she was astride him; and bending down, whispered to him, her warm breath in his ear.

"I read your note. I don’t want to live without you, either. Ever. I can’t.”

She pulled away, her thin torso straightening, and in one hand he recognized a small, fuzzy bundle. A much beloved object that he knew would be a soft brown, had it not been night. Eli placed it on the coverlet and from beneath it withdrew something. He saw a familiar, dull glint, and with this, was now wide awake.

She held the knife up between them.

"But Oskar . . . I cannot decide for you. It must be your choice. If you can do this, then . . . then you are strong enough. It is tonight—or never."

A silent pause, seemingly interminable. He pulled his arms up from beneath the blankets. He reached; caressed her cheek. The touch stirred a thought: a wooden butter knife, polished smooth like the finest silk.

This could be me.

She lowered the knife and her gaze fixed his. A smile flickered briefly across her face, and he wondered: Was she also remembering that night when he had first touched her?

Without breaking their gaze she found his hand with hers. Gently pressed the knife into it, curled his fingers around the hilt. Then moved closer, so close that her black hair brushed his forehead. Tilted her head to the side.

A flood of understanding passed through him.

He saw her neck: exposed, ready for taking. Saw a flutter there as she swallowed. Heard, husky and barely audible: “Don’t worry--I won’t hurt for long.”

He hesitated, unsure of what to do. Then she was guiding his left hand, up underneath the angle of her jaw. She pressed his fingertips in and then he felt the movement, a sluggish pulse. Much slower than his own heart was now beating, he realized.

“Here.”

Out of his vision, her hand squeezed her bunny tightly.

He swallowed. His mouth felt dry; his eyes, suddenly wet. He sniffed, then brought the blade up. The reflected light flickered as it trembled in his hand. The point pressed in, dimpling her skin. He raised his head from the pillow and with his left hand in her hair, lowered her to his mouth.

Let it happen.

No matter what.

[a_contemplative_life]

Here's another one. This is the first piece of FF I ever wrote about LTROI. It picks up before Eli and Hakan come to Blackeberg. In the novel it is described that they had to move after Hakan screwed up a few times. To all you old-timers, forgive me for the reposting...

Norrköping

Eli stared out sideways into the whitewashed bedroom through the narrow gap between the closet doors. The room beyond her dark space was brightened only by a gray metal floor lamp that was missing its shade. A yellowed piece of string dangled like a cobweb from the socket in lieu of a pull-chain. On the floor below the lamp lay a half-folded sheet, upon which were arranged her old trinkets and toys. They held no interest at present.

She rolled over and away from the room to face the shadowy backside of the closet, trying to get comfortable on the pale blue shag carpet. It didn’t help. She was too hungry; too weak.

How long had he been gone? Time seemed to crawl when she felt like this. Eli sighed and curled into a fetal position, drawing her knees up and folding her arms across her chest. Felt a little better.

It had been three days since she had awoke from her last big sleep. She didn’t really know how long she had been out until Håkan had shown her the calendar in the kitchen: 42 days. There were no memories, no dreams to recall from that time--they were simply gone.

Since waking up, she had been lethargic and stuporous. She remembered that they were living in the apartment here in Norrköping before she fell asleep, but was unable to recall when they had moved in. Yet her more distant memories, as when she had first encountered Håkan in Karlstad, were intact.

Falling asleep for long stretches, she had learned, had its advantages and disadvantages. It was good because she did not experience any hunger; bad because she was completely vulnerable. The mere act of waking up from her temporary oblivion was a relief, but she hated having to deal once again with . . . everything. With what she was. And more recently, with Håkan’s needs.

The hunger gnawed deeper into her gut; mocking her, demanding attention. Telling her in no uncertain terms: I will not be ignored. With a low moan she got up, pushed back the closet doors, and crawled out and over to a portable tape player perched atop a metal step stool.

Enough. Why even try to get comfortable? Need something to take my mind off it.

She stabbed the Play button and Agnetha Fältskog’s mellifluous voice filled the room to the sound of a guitar.

". . . anything
If you see the wonder of a fairy tale,
You can take the future even if you fail
I believe in angels,
Something good in everything I see
I believe in angels,
When I know the time is right for me . . ."

Eli stared dumbly at the little wheels turning inside the little plastic window. She had enjoyed the album when it had first come out a few years ago, especially Voulez-Vous. But this song she didn’t like. The lyrics seemed laughably naïve and stupid. She heard the same kind of stuff on the radio, too. People walking around, believing in God, angels, heaven—it seemed as if they might have been from another planet. To believe in all of that . . . must be living a different life, she thought.

Angrily she clicked it off. She fast-forwarded the tape and sampled a few more songs, but nothing seemed to satisfy. So she stopped, and the silence returned.

She cocked her head, listening carefully. No, not complete silence: a faint patter had begun on the window behind the heavy blanket duct-taped to the wall. Putting a hand on the step stool, she unsteadily gained her feet and went to the window. Because it was dark there was no danger, so she lifted up a corner and peered out into the night.

A dark square of grass, lit by a couple of streetlights off to the left, lay before her and stretched to another apartment building across the way. Snow and sleet were beginning to fall, the wetness dripping down the glass and distorting the windows of the apartment opposite hers into splotches of yellow. No one to be seen; no sign of Håkan. Only a pallid-faced, frail little girl in a faded turquoise top staring back at her.

Eli continued to gaze vacantly out of the window. She shivered, unconsciously rubbed her stomach and thought about what was coming. Håkan would bring what she needed. Had to. And if he didn’t? Eli shoved this thought out of her mind. Can’t think about that.

If he—when he returned with it, though, what would he want? An old, cynical voice inside her spoke up, always quick with its answer: What he always wants, of course. Don’t you know? There’s a price to pay for everything.

As if on cue, she heard the sound of a key in the lock and the deadbolt being drawn back. Startled, she stopped frowning, turned and shuffled cautiously toward the outer hallway.

With a gust of cool air, Håkan stepped in through the door and locked it behind him. He cast a worried glance at her. His cheeks and nose were a high red color from the cold, and the ear flaps of his ushanka were down and loose, lending his face a comical, dog-like appearance. He heaved a sigh, leaned against the now closed door, and placed a large, black Adidas bag on the floor in front of her.

Eli looked at him, caught his eye. Looked down to the bag; then back to him. His mouth a thin line, Håkan nodded slightly, sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. Together they crouched with the bag between them, and he unbuckled the top. He withdrew a wadded, vinyl rain poncho and set it aside. Then he pulled out a grubby plastic water jug and carefully handed it to her. Thick, dark fluid gently sloshed inside.

In a moment of genuine gratitude she took his hand into hers and touched his cheek. “Thank you. Thank you,” she whispered.

They stood up together and Eli hugged him awkwardly, the bag and its contents still between their feet. He had been trembling, but quickly relaxed in her embrace.

With her cheek pressed against the cool, damp nylon of his jacket she asked, “Is everything all right? Did you have any—was there any problem?”

“No, it was—I just had to leave quickly, that’s all. That’s why it’s—“ he gestured at the jug—“not very full.”

“Where did you go?”

“Långtorp. A park near there. Like we said.”

“Did anyone see you?”

He didn’t answer. Looked away and stared at the floor.

Eli withdrew from his embrace. Studied his face for a moment; said nothing. Then picked up the jug and the poncho, and moved back toward the bedroom.

He took a step after her, then stopped when she turned and spoke. “You don’t want to watch, do you? Remember last time.”

"No--you're right," he conceded, his face mask-like. He withdrew a flask from an inner pocket. As he retreated down the hall he said softly, “I’ll be in my room. If you need anything.”

Behind her locked door, Eli spread the poncho on the floor. She placed the jug in the middle of the makeshift dropcloth and knelt, the clear material crackling beneath her bare knees. She trembled with anticipation at the faint warmth she felt through the container.

She unscrewed the lid and the suddenly released, coppery odor filled her nostrils. Eli’s heart beat faster and without realizing it, she licked her lips. Grasping the jug in both hands, she stared eagerly down through the small opening at the rich redness inside. One small bubble floated to the surface like a tiny eye and popped, leaving almost imperceptible ripples that briefly radiated out from its center.

Without ceremony she fastened her lips around the opening and tipped up the end of the container. Inside the blood shifted, reached the portal, and poured into her.

A torrent of exquisite goodness washed over her tongue, then completely filled her mouth. She drank deeply, like a parched man at a desert oasis. Her small Adam’s apple bobbed as she chugged it down in a continuous flow. A loud gulping sound rose from her swelling throat.

When the blood hit her stomach a tingling sensation stirred there. It rapidly rose up her esophagus like a hot beam of fire and merged with the powerful concentration of pleasure in her head, and a swelling cascade of euphoria swept throughout her body. She rode with it, feeling it extend down her arms and out to her fingertips; down her legs to her feet; not caring when the warm fluid began to overflow her lips and trickle down her jaw and neck in crimson streaks. Red, irregular half-circles slowly grew and expanded at the frayed neck of her thin cotton nightshirt.

She shuddered violently and suddenly was no longer Eli. All memory, all reasoning, all caring was obliterated as her entire being became concentrated upon the stream of life pouring into her; Eli, as a person, ceased to exist. Within her mouth, ancient, 12-year-old front teeth were suddenly transformed, narrowing and sharpening themselves into fangs. Her fingers extended and became claw-like, and the plastic in their grip bent, then crumpled.

Higher and higher the thing that had been Eli raised the ruined, flattened vessel as the last bolus was sucked out. The blood splashed carelessly down its chest and splattered in thick, congealed drops onto the poncho below.

It grunted grotesquely, the thin, pale body completely erect, chest heaving, its head craned back so far that the mouth was pointed directly at the ceiling. The tongue shot out and probed into the neck of the jug, licking the interior clean as far as it could reach. Then with its talons it grasped the upended bottom of the container, tore it in half, and slammed it down onto the floor. Holding the plastic as flat as its native resilience would allow, it crouched down and lapped the surfaces clean.

A feral growl filled the room. Then the tattered and misshapen remains were hurled against the wall. On the opposite side Håkan paused, flask halfway to his lips, interrupted by the dull thunk as it ricocheted off and landed in a corner.

She returned to herself as her tongue whisked the last, fat drops off the poncho. As it busily performed its work, she glanced out of the corner of her eye and through the black strands of her hair, caught sight of her porcelain clown standing in his characteristic pose beside her egg. His usually happy smile seemed now to be a knowing grin. Next to him, her small, candle bunny stared unflinchingly at her with its little red eyes, taking in the scene.

Eli paused, then drew her tongue back into her mouth. Panting, she remained in the same position for what seemed like a long time, as if she might be preparing to play a game of leapfrog. Gradually her heart slowed to a normal rhythm.

She emitted a languid sigh, and slowly let her head drop until her cheek came to rest in the middle of where she had been licking. Her hair flattened and adhered to the sticky dregs beneath. To a stranger, she would have appeared revolting and pathetic, but she was well beyond caring about how she looked to anyone.

With immense weariness she surveyed the barren room. She searched the stuccoed wall for some pattern, but it was devoid of meaning.

Through half-lidded eyes she refocused and took in her vampire hand. Still can’t get used to it, she thought. Even after all these years.

She drifted. If she could have gone to sleep, she would have; but that was impossible. So her mind continued to turn restlessly. And soon turned to that one thought that loomed, like the tip of an iceberg, in the dark sea of her consciousness.

Who had it been, she wondered. Who was it that I just—

Stop it. Stop.

Don’t think. Don’t . . .

Was it a man? Probably. How old? A boy? Håkan was right: the jug had not been very full. Why?

This will not help, she thought. You can’t change anything. It’s not your faul—

Did someone . . . had someone--loved him?

There was no answer. Only the sound of sleet on the window.

Silently her chest started to hitch. Her wretched, vampire hand wavered, then grew blurry as the tears began to flow.

Håkan screwed the cap back on his flask and turned on his mattress to face the wall. He heard the muffled sound of a choked sob. In fits and starts, the sobbing grew louder, and soon rose to an undulating, keening wail.

Eli . . .

[TigerEyes]

O&E and barber's

Oh boy, even Eli there looked very much like a boy, looking disappointed in this hairstyle. Get back at Oskar!

[thestich]

To all you old-timers...

Us old timers, our memory sometimes ain't that great, so a reminder is helpful.

[TigerEyes]

i have to say, that picture had the look that says, "Oh Oskar, i'm so want to hurt you for this, but i just couldn't. Stop laughing, Oskar."

[Clubmeister]

i have to say, that picture had the look that says, "Oh Oskar, i'm so want to hurt you for this, but i just couldn't. Stop laughing, Oskar."

I had to make more than 20 screenshots to catch needed expression

[gkmoberg1]

excellent stories ACL! glad you re-posted these last two.

[gkmoberg1]

Hmmmm, I would write something but it would never get done. I do wish I had the time. Yet I've enjoyed many good conversations with others over plans on what kinds of stories could be done and I love reviewing things. Someday... (Sigh)

Well, just throw in some MORE off-the-cuff, spontaneous stuff, while you're busy putting off the Magnum Opus? I mean, you could get run over by a bus tomorrow...

Ha! THOSE are examples of good. Stick with those.

True. But no, you don't get away that easily...

Ha! Mobi-wan is delighted to report that over the weekend he (skillfully) side stepped every bus that came at him

And I'll be sure to send you my Magnum Opus... uh yeh right.

[DMt.]

Can I hold you to that?