Moulin Jewels (part 3)

When last we met, dear readers, my fangs were about to penetrate the jugular vein of a … let's call him a … janitor, in the Moulin Rouge. So let us return to that blissful moment. Ooh … makes me hungry just thinking about it.(1)

***

An eternity passed.(2) Exquisite dreams flowed through my veins. Shadows of memories … his … mine … blurred into a melange of moments until I knew his every dark secret.

I found myself exposed to voluptuous moments with gaudy, brassy ladies of the night, which blurred into images of haggard, chubby women with five o'clock shadows prickling his chin. A blonde lady, slight, fragile, sliced through the throat by his vile, murderous hands. As his evil revealed itself, my hunger grew.(3) His blood was intoxicating: dark, rich and spiced by his misdeeds. My senses became heightened as his wicked life and soul(4) flowed into my body. My lips caressed his skin and my tongue lapped hungrily as my teeth ripped deeper into his being. As his body weakened, his heart gave up its final secret - the most disturbing sight of all.(5) My Gabrielle, her eyes closed, her lips slightly parted, seemingly in ecstasy. I had seen enough. Jealousy bit into me like a rabid dog. Savagely, my jaws snapped closed like a mousetrap and his worthless, loathsome corpse sagged in my arms. Disgusted, I threw him onto the ground.(6)

Gabrielle. I stared at the lifeless corpse, its empty eyes stared back. I hated her for that, hated myself. Patience. I had to be patient. She would be mine soon enough. I just had to wait–

And then I saw her. My Gabrielle. I would impress her. Gracefully, my arm extended, the light rebounding off perfection in all its toned glory. I was a god.(7) My legs were divine. The paragon of – how dare she look away?! That sassy–

Raising an unimpressed eyebrow, I stared after her. Her cherry red corset and voluminous skirt accentuated her perfect curves and complemented her milky white skin. She was exquisite. I watched as she strutted, oozing confidence, in the direction of the stage. Had she even noticed me? Surprised at my sudden shyness, I shook myself. Come on Eddie, my snarling subconscious growled at me.(8) Eventually, I would ensnare her in my web of love. Eventually, she would regret her foolish decision to walk away from me. She would pay with her heart and her soul. Eventually.

“Stardust!” a sharp, arrogant voice shocked me back into the room. Beaugarçon. I sneered to myself, before turning to face him. What did he want? I turned to face him, forcing a façade of a smile onto my face. He looked angry.

“Ah, Monsieur!” I beamed. “How are you?”

“Stardust, get your gorgeous ass onto that stage,” he growled, spanking my behind. I grimaced on the inside as something within me stirred, but my face was a picture of seduction.

“Do that again, you naughty boy,” I purred, longing to tear his throat out. Visions of crimson spraying into my mouth left me shivering. Glancing down, I could see I had awoken something in him. I raised a cheeky eyebrow and strutted off, wiggling my hips to tempt Beaugarçon in just the same way as my Gabrielle had lured me. He hadn't a hope in hell.

Lights … dazzling wonderful sparkling lights. Beyond them, hidden from my blinded view: my public. They had no idea what awaited them when the music began.

The music began – a slinky, sexy number. I swirled my hips and gazed into the audience, lowering my lengthy lashes, before sashaying across the stage.

A whirling dervish of glitter and satin, I pranced and danced, a pirhouetting pirhana disguised as an angel fish(9), I wowed them, hynotised them, entranced them. Entranced them with my prancey dance, how they would desire my lance(10)… I was a sexy god in a dress.(11) I heard my public sigh and breathe in with shock and anticipation as my lithe and slender form twisted and bent into shapes of wonder: I was a wonder.

Far too soon, it was over. The music ceased and I took up my position at the centre of the stage to take a bow … or on this occasion, to curtsey.

The crowd roared and cheered, applauding me; applauding my fabulousness. I had made my debut and they had loved me. It was as well for them. I beamed before turning sharply and striding from the stage.

Backstage, a familiar and oh so dear face greeted me; and this time, she smiled at me. The fire in her green spread to my loins, quenching and igniting my need to feast. This diva; my rival, my desire. This goddess. Gabrielle.

***

“Je suis Stardust.” I breathed, her scent filling my nostrils, my lips. “Say it again. Tu es...”

A small, almost girlish laugh croaked from her parted mouth, her hand batting mine away as I caught her fingers in my kiss. Her eyes chose not to leave mine, enticing, appraising, wholesome... consuming. As hungry as my own?

“Sweet thing.” She purred, her accent shifting so abruptly the spell was shattered. She had been listening to Sharon! “'ow iz zat, eh monsieur? I can English, oui? And you, you 'ave a voice most magnifique. Mon dieu, zose legs; zose hips. Oh, zose hands, zose dainty fingers, and zat neck; it 'as the swan's envy, non?”

I bit her.

“Oh, you bad boy.” That purr was back, low, angry, and she sank the tips of her teeth along my neck in mimicry; her tongue flicked out. Her eyes widened, her pupils dilating, even as she dragged her canines to my shoulder, then to my corset's frills. She buried her nose in my bosom. Twin droplets of blood trickled down her porcelain neck. Her fingernails tore into my stays, my skin; scarlet ribbons broke against the dank air. “I can be your kitten, oui? Your... tigresse?”(12)

What had possessed me? My fangs had stopped short, merely grazing her. I found myself at a loss for words, my kiss smoothing her blood away. Its taste fanned the wildfires of passion in us both. Her breathing quickened, matching mine.

“Are you a bad-tempered bull, my passionate duck. Coo, coo.” The devilish twinkle in her stare sent shivers down my now-rigid spine.(13)

This time, my teeth pressed deeper; I felt her body heave against mine, her blood surging as her breasts lifted and crushed me. The heat in her rose, mixing with sweat and perfume; I inhaled the taste, that glorious cocktail of salty, coppery lavender-rose.

My arms ensnared her waist; her fingernails clawed, gouging into my back. It was intoxicating. I felt delirious, alive. Her breath was in me, filling my nostrils, my throat. I barely contained my greed; she knew, and pulled back, teasingly. Teasingly! Me! Like a snake, she coiled around me, leaning close, withdrawing, and finally, striking. Her nails bit deep, piercing, stabbing; her foot gliding against my calf. Our dance effortlessly surpassed my debut; our shameless audience of two. It was sordid ecstasy; that dirty, grimy 'nightclub encounter', a tryst behind the curtains, a...

She purred for me. Purred my name. In the masculine. For a moment, I remembered what it was to be mortal again. Her tongue traced my jugular; her hand crept up my thighs and squeezed; even as my eyes rolled back, she seized me, squeezed me. It was like a song. Then her hand found her way inside, beneath my skirts, between my...

“Your derrière, she is handsome, non? You like this, oui?” That smile was wicked; self assured, faux-innocent, a pretty little... I moaned. Me! I, the greatest –- I could not repress myself. Her fingernails gripping me, her legs coiling as she hoisted herself up and ground her hips to mine. Her guiding hand, the press of her through her most intimate garments, her own skirts lifted. She leaned in and took my earlobe between her teeth. “Is this what you wanted, mon chat? I can always tell the princesses from the queens.” I could no longer formulate words. “Let me crown you; my empress of swans, you soar over ze ungainly geese.”

“Ough...”

“Oui, like that. Oh oui. Oui mon chat, oh, oh, oui. Ride higher, ascend with moi. My dark panther-”

It was an act, too heavily dramatised; it was filthy. It was everything I wanted. More. Did she know what I was? What I really was? My heart stopped; I felt faint. This song, our song: this ballad of rearing swans. The climax would end in death, throes beyond measure. Her lips creased; she knew, she had to. My feral instincts warred with the promise of the next time; a time that could never be. How could I be so short-sighted?

“Oh mon dieu. My Stardust. Tu es- Oui … you remind me of my sister, my Abi.”(14)

She had to go there. Why did she have to go there? This was not part of our dance; our song had no room for another. Did she not understand what happened to men who were compared to their lover's sister, during the act of love?(15) Was she stupid? No, she was trying to arouse jealousy within me. Inadequate? Moi? Jamais! I sealed her mouth with mine; nothing, not even her, would ruin my moment.

She was mine. But was I hers? I had what I wanted. I desired her; now the urge to consume her consumed me. I threw her down; she landed with a low cry. Not of pain or fear, but of joy; her fishnets parted, her thighs inviting me to tear apart their satin prison. Her toes curled, those slender feet reaching to ensnare my neck. Her fingers tore at my neckline. My hands seized hers wrists. The smut that this place breathed was infectious. Now she would pay. Not as a woman; for calling me out, I-

She did not give me the chance, but drew me down. Crotchless beneath that flap. My mind was an open book; I could not accept it. My teeth bit into her thigh, her belly. Her leg lifted and as I made her my own, her right hand thrust mine inside her, and her left forced my teeth into her artery. My vision descended to the scarlet haze.

I screamed in anguish, distant to my own ears as I slowly came, then came to and stared down; as the light began to fade from her eyes, she wore a small, triumphant smile. She had won. Questions coursed through my mind. Somehow, I had lost. I had lost her, and more.

Her hand sank to her sumptuous breast.

This theatre would burn. I would make a pyre the likes of which none had seen since 1666.

As I thought about seeking matches, I stopped for a moment and watched her body wilting under the hand of Death. I wanted to puke. At the final, fatal moment, she had opened her mind to me and I had seen something, something that left me hollow. What I had just done?

Green, swirling like liquid, filled with tiny bubbles. A beautiful young lady – her emerald dress and necklace adorning a figure of such exquisite beauty that my breath caught in my throat. Her slight features and alabaster skin were pure and unmarked. She was familiar to me but from where?

Then the memory of a single word came to me. Abi. ABI! Gabrielle's sister(16) was Ma Belle – how could I have forgotten her: my one true love, the light of my life, the wonder in my wonderful? What had I done? Ma Belle had been banished from me for more years than I could count(17) and I had feared I might never find her, indeed, I had long since been deprived of her memory by some most unwelcome magic. Having remembered my one true love, I could think of nothing else. I had to find her. I had to. The only trouble was that I had eaten the one person who could have helped me to find her. Worse still I had just … with her sister …death would be a merciful blessing if she found out.

Oh God I was distraught. As I screamed Ma Belle's name aloud, I covered my eyes with one hand and stretched my arm out into the middle distance.

It was too late. I couldn't raise her to our ranks. Even if drained the blood from the entire audience and emptied it from my own veins into her husk, it wouldn't be enough. She was... gone. I stared as the simile of Ma Belle's face cracked into a grotesque grin. There was nothing for it: I had to destroy all evidence.(18)

Igor's footnotes:

(1) You glutton. Your insatiable diet of blood is enough to turn the appetite of anyone who is fool enough to read this drivel.

(2) Again with the... why do I bother? I can correct only so much! You poetry and theatrics are misplaced, overused, and as boorish as you. No ghost writer should be forced to suffer this much! And to think, it only gets worse.
(3) See point 1.

(4) Uh huh. Soul eater? Really? Are we to believe you keep a cache in that empty heart of yours? 'Inspiration' for your absurd personas? I suppose you think a silent audience is an audience that approves? That might explain your misplaced confidence regarding the 'popularity' of your ravings.
(5) There are far, far more disturbing sights. For example, the sight of your pallid gormless vampire countenance could turn the bravest of knights to jelly – and not in the way you think. What you do with “Royal Jelly” is beyond description.
(6) And no doubt, after gorging on him, you probably violated his still-warm body, you disgusting vermin.
(7)What is your obsession with being a god? You, my dear nemesis of the mind, are as distant from godliness as the necrotising bacteria which dwell in the depths of your festering armpit, you animated corpse.

(8) Subconscious? You? I can only assume you are referring to the 'voices' in your head. Voices you made up; who else could you narrate to and be congratulated by? You make me sick to my stomach.
(9) Seriously, I wish you would allow me to teach you about metaphors. The idea is to use descriptions that actually make the point you are aiming for. Disguising a pirhana as an angel fish is like comparing a pirhana to a pirhana, you tasteless cockwomble! They're both as bitey and as vicious as you.

(10) Seriously? A lance? You have a very skewed concept of length. Your readers should be thankful you decided a 'unicorn horn' lacked impact.

(11) See point (8)

(12) I'm going to be sick. You disgust me.

(13) Clichés you moronic slab of dried vomit. If I have told you once, I've told you a thousand times, clichés do not make good reading. (*He won't understand that one, readers!*)

(14) Gabi and Abi – oh how very original. *rolls eyes*.

(15) You have never committed an act of love in all your many days on this earth, you narcissistic bastard. I think what you're unsuccessfully euphemising, is an unadulterated act of fucking.
(16) How in the - not even your demented mind can miss the impossibility of this, you witless numpty. According to your drivellings, that green harpy you drool over is older than you are. How can you fail to recognise this paradox? You aren't even making any semblance of sense, or is this your idiotic idea of a metaphor?

(17) See point (13)

(18) You moronic oaf. If you had a single ounce of grey matter between those thick ears of yours, you would have scrapped this entire segment. If we are following your inane narrative, that imaginary green witch of yours can read, which is more than I can say for you.



---

A Christmas Shanty by ye olde Willy Dickespeare

Dear readers.

Behold, the dreadful mess, which ensues when I dare take a brief respite from my ghost writing duties, to recover from the writer's cramp, induced by NaNoWriMo. These are the words of Eddie Stardust himself. You have been warned.

A Christmas Shanty

By ye olde Willy Dickespeare (aka the magnificent Eddie Stardust)

Christmas Eve

'Twas the night afore the Mass o' the Christ when all through ye olde house,

not a Yorrick was stirring, he was stuffing a grouse.

Mama's stockings were hung on the airer with care.

Not for her, being dead, she was no longer there.

As for Yorrick, the grump, he awaited with glee,

The moment to pull mama's stockings to his knee.

You are the worst kind of moron, Stardust. How does this awfully written piece reflect either of your literary heroes? You will never be a troubadour or a bard. Give it up. It's already too late. Furthermore, I'm not Yorrick. I'm Igor. IGOOOOOR!

Methought I heard a voice cry “I'm Igor! I'm really sore! Don't write anymore.”

Stardust doth murder writing, therefore Dickespeare shall write some more! Yorrick shall sleep no more!

Yorrick, Yoooooorrick. Thy stocking doth lie empty, bereft as thy soul.

How shall we compare thee? To a midwinter night's dream. Thou art more grumpy and more grim than any I have met. Torrid gales doth shake the rancid leaves of death from thy branches but yet thou remainest, winding me the hell up.

That's right, Stardust, take the sonnet and destroy it, why don't you?

Just write my damned memoirs Yorrick, you snivelling dimwit. I am the diva, not you.

Nay, a nightmare, forsooth! Thou art a miser, Yorrick. Alas, I knew you at all. That I shall yet sup on the green liqueur from thy cranial cavity is my one solace. That sweet sweet nectar, tainted with thy brains. Thy pantry standeth stocked with the most rancid of stores: bitterness, bile – a vile draught to swallow! Thy breast's milk is tainted, you cow. Hast thou no charity for a poor and weak disco gimp vampire? Thy heart is as empty as thy body.

But I digress.

Yorrick standeth in the graveyard, looking disgruntled, wishing he could join the ranks of the gruntled … if that's even a word. (Yorrick, get on it!) It matters not. Yorrick will never be worthy of gruntling, therefore the point is moot.

He is approached by his downtrodden employee (NOTE TO SELF: Clearly this is a work of fiction – Yorrick will never be the employer), Edward Gimlet (Hamlet, you moron!)

“Mr Yorrick, work is over. My son little Gimlette wishes a word with you,” sayeth the tragic Edward.

“Please, Sir, spareth me a bite to eat. Spare some bread?” addeth little Gimlette, who dreams only of tinsel and fairy dust, he's a bit fabulous, you see, like his old man.

“Bread?” Yorrick yelleth, indignant rage furrowing his brow. “Bread? Thou shalt rob an old git of his only sustenance? Thou art a villain, Little Gimlette and your father, well, he be fired. Let me fetch the matches.”

“Thy heart is as empty as my stomach, thou plain dealing villain, thou rancid scoundrel. I will leave you now, and henceforth, thou shalt forever walk this earth, holding thy pieces, as thy dead yet living corpse rots around you.” Alas, Little Gimlette's words startled poor Yorrick somewhat. Such words should never have issued from the mouths of babes or urchins.

Later that night in the Hippodrome, Colchester ...

“When shall we three meet again?” Les Fates of Christmas trois croon.

“In snow shower, fog or just in pain?” Fate 1 – the Fate of Christmas past giggles into her eggnog and babycham cocktail.

“When the weekly shoppe is done.” Fate 2 – the Fate of Essex Christmas Present drools.

“When the Lotto's lost and won,” Fate 3 – the Fate of Christmas Riches Yet to Come, heavily pregnant and even more heavily made up, whines, examining her lottery tickets. “That will be ere the dreadful pun.” Fate 3 goes on.

“Where the place?” Fate 1 cries out

“Ow 'baat in Lakeside?” Fate 2 whines on.

“There to meet with Yorrick's fate,” Fate 3 jumps up and down with fake excitement.

“I come, dear tanning salon man,”

“Towie calls,”

“Anon”

“Yorrick, oh Yorrick, wherefore art thou Yorrick? Awaken thou thy broken body. Haunt not the season to be merry. Make a cake like Mary Berry, Thou never shalt bestow thy cherry. Really, thou art far too hairy.”

“Maybe have some coal instead, lest Eddie drinketh from thy head.

Blah blah blah, Yorrick dies.

The end.

... Ho ho ho!

And so you see, poor, long suffering readers, exactly why Stardust needs my services. His writings truly are the ramblings of an insane person. Be grateful. Should I depart this immortal coil, this is what you would be stuck with.

Merry Christmas. 

Moulin Jewels (part 2)

Previously, on 'The Epilogue of Eddie Stardust' …

Eddie, stop this ridiculous Americanisation of your story. The reader can scroll back to the previous post if they wish to know what happened before, although why they would is beyond me. Honestly I despair. - IGOR

* * *

I turned the corner, anticipation boiling within me. From the way men were winking at me, I couldn't lose(1). A few more steps and there she stood; my lover, my mistress – The Moulin Rouge. I passed through the modern doors with a tinge of disappointment. The stunning art nouveau entrance I remembered from my warm life was long gone, replaced in the wake of some new trend or other. I remained undeterred. My heels clicked as I swished my hips, pouting as I approached the box office.

“I wish to converse with the manager,” I breathed, my husky voice making the plain Jane behind the counter shudder. I was irresistible. I knew it. She knew it and soon, the world would know it(2). My name would be in lights, my body would sparkle(3) and I would be the burlesque can can dancer I had always dreamed I could be.

But first, I had to win over the boss. That wouldn't be hard, although he might be by the time I was done with him.

A hinge creaked. A door slammed.

“Thierry Beaugarçon.” a delicious voice announced. I turned around. Thierry Beaugarçon. A wonderful name. It described him so well with his neat, honey coloured ponytail, tight body and chiselled good looks.

“Edwina,” I fluttered my false eyelashes flirtatiously.

“And what can I do for you, Edwina?” The sound of his mouth forming my name told me what I needed to know. I had entranced him. I just needed to seal the deal – whatever it took.

* * *

It didn’t take us long. My body twinkled under the dim light(4). We were behind his desk, my hands at his belt. My knees rubbed against the rough carpet, but it didn’t matter. He tried to assure me that he wasn’t like this, that this wasn’t who he was. I hushed him and leant in for a kiss. It pleased me to see his eyes roll back, to have him in thrall. Spasms racked him and my hold over him increased. I wove my spell delicately, with nibbles and kisses, an artist’s brushstroke, broad, narrow. His firm hands gripped my cheeks. I didn’t mind. His thick fingers around my jaw only heightened my sense of achievement.

“Let me show you what I can do.” I told him. Hot, salty, moisture. I licked my lips. He shuddered again and I rose unerringly(5). With a backwards wink, I sauntered out of the office. The stage was mine. His eyes never left my hips. Thierry Beaugarçon. My manager. My smile drew stares. Private, sly, they only suspected. I purred to the plain Jane, hoping for a more private audience. I was getting thirsty again but first, there were more important things to attend to.

A few moments later, clutching the papers Beaugarçon had provided, I located the stage door. It was not what I had expected. Damned romanticism. The nasty beige formica door was set into a wooden door frame, from which chunks of blood red gloss paint had been chipped, revealing layers of lurid blue beneath. A horrible sign was screwed to the door bearing the word “Stage entrance” in a font which surely died along with the sixties. I pushed the door open, recoiling as a decade of finger grease polluted my fine skin. I needed to wash my hands. Come to think of it, I needed to clean my teeth as well.

Beyond the door, I nearly vomited. The door opened to the hallway which time forgot. Purple and orange paisley adorned the walls and crimson was just visible beneath a thick layer of grime(6).

“Entrez!” a husky female voice summoned me. Something stirred in my loins(7). The voice emanated from the second door way on the left. I made my way to see what the voice belonged to.

* * *

Pink leotard. Body glitter. I sparkled like dew in the morn sun. Eyeliner. I emerged from the dressing room with a hesitant step. Then I straightened. My hair was curled, honey blonde. Try outs were about to begin. I drew in a deep breath. The stage awaited.

I leapt onto it. There were others, boys and girls both, but they were broken ravens to my swan. Stars of the show, nevermore(8)! I twirled and I dipped; I span and I shone. My leg long, my foot arched, I pivoted. I was a dancing queen. There was no one there but me(9).

The dances flickered.

Everything went black.

* * *

Murmurs … Smudgy colours. Greens, pinks, forms moving. Focus returned slowly like steam clearing from a mirror. I saw her face – her beautiful face.

Love. Was it? It had been so long since love had clawed at my heart with its poisonous talons. I had long since locked it in the closet of my previous, human life. Did I love her? I thought so. Sapphires sparkled beneath her full eyelashes. Glitter adorned her every feature and her fiery red hair burned a permanent mark into my heart.

“Mon Cher?” her velvety voice caressed my ears. “I am so sorry.” Her French Accent stirred my senses. Had I been alive, I would have had an embarrassing situation to deal with. “Antoine did not mean to 'it you on ze 'ed. Are you ok?” I could not speak. I was under her spell. Clichés were running through my mind on an imaginary conveyor belt(10). I couldn't help it. I stared, all thoughts of glitter, sparkles and dancing deserting me(11).

Finally, my stubborn mouth caught up with my brain. “I am tres bien, Mademoiselle. Might I ask, what is your name?”

A quizzical expression and an eyebrow twitch. “Gabrielle.”

“I am Edwina.” I responded. Edwina. The name stuck in my throat. She smiled.

My thoughts ran amok. Her lips moved as she pronounced each syllable. My name sounded like liquid silk from her mouth. Even in undeath, my own was dry. My heart lurched. Her slyness left me breathless. I wasn’t sure what it was about her. Her step as she trod towards me, her legs, her hips, her belly, her bust, her shoulders, her neck, her chin, her… her mouth halted a hairsbreadth from my own. Maybe she reminded me of … her … I saw myself reflected back in her endless blue. I glimpsed her soul.

I gasped.

Her fingers had coiled around me and her hold made me throb. Fresh blood in my system coursed to all the wrong places(12).

She repeated my name and that coy, slightly arched brow made me whimper. She inched closer. I couldn’t scurry back, only forwards. Her voice in my ear was ecstasy; my name held me enthralled.

“Gabrielle.” My voice was a croak, a sigh. My mind added: an angel. An angel of fire. Sapphire fire(13). Could I be in paradise? What passed for paradise in this unending mortal hell?

She broke away with an effortless turn and an even more effortless shrug. Her fine shoulders were glorious to behold. Living art, flawless and perfect in the very best way. The light, her light… how had she known? I followed her unthinkingly. I lost all spatial awareness, all my senses convulsing as they fused to a single point: her. I heard the gentle, steady pulse of her blood, the roar of my own, siphoned from my victims. She was everything a woman could be. A diva, a goddess… she would be mine. My Gabrielle.

Without warning, my reverie was interrupted. With fearsome purpose driving her every perfect, sexy movement. Gabrielle disappeared behind a heavy velvet curtain. Cautiously, I approached the soft fabric, reaching out my hand to reveal what lay on the other side.

“Oi! What you doin?” a broad London accent shocked me. Shaking, I dropped the curtain and span, cursing whoever had interrupted me. “There's a show on. Don't touch the flamin' curtains. Audience'll see yer. Boss'll kill yer.”

Mixed emotions created a muddy well in the pit of my stomach. Excitement at discovering my stage pooled soft and sticky, creating a melange à trois(14) with heady lust for Gabrielle and sticky, black anger for the savage voiced idiot that had ruined my moment. I would bide my time. Everything I desired would be mine. If the staff of the Moulin Rouge wished to remain warm, they would co-operate. Something told me that I would not be hungry for a long time.

I walked away, pouting at my new best enemy. He was young, foolish. Probably had dreams of grandeur. The broom in his hand told me that success, for him, was a long way off. I smirked and turned on my heel, making my way back to the dressing room to await my first rehearsal.

He followed me. To shoo me off, or just to make sure I was far from the stage I wasn’t sure. It was his hide as much as mine if he allowed someone to slip beneath the curtain. I thought of my sapphire fire, my Gabrielle. Mere seconds and I longed for her; time, this strange concept, seconds as dewdrops in the sun, days as a blink and moments immortal. I turned and smiled at him. He should have stepped back; instead, he stepped forwards, startled, but glaring. I smiled and he smiled back unwillingly. Oh, how unwillingly. Mine was a smile of apology, of understanding… his mirroring mine. My raised eyebrow looked beyond him, to the dressing room on side. Everyone was too concerned with the stage: getting there, being there, or stopping others from getting there. My dream, his passion, his dream, my passion. It didn’t matter what he thought, how he felt; he was drawn to me. Me, the unknown star yet to rise in this night’s sky. My hand rested on his broom; his tightened, then lowered. Without bothering to look, I pivoted, knowing he followed…

The immortal moment.

(1) You are such an arrogant tosspot. What makes you think you're God's gift to men … women … trolls … dragons … pixies, swamp donkeys and so on? As if you'd really convince anyone you're a female with that seven o'clock shadow?

(2) Seriously? See (1)

(3) You and your bloody sequins. Gah!

(4) Shall I get you a unicorn to go with that, Princess Twinkle Toes.

(5) Why do you insist on making me put my name to this filth? You disgust me. The only hot, salty moisture this image draws from me are tears, rolling down the inside of my eyes.

(6) What is perverse obsession with casting aspersions on the interior décor of my home, by including it in your 'memoirs'? I hate you. See (1).

(7) Early stages of syphilis? Parasites?

(8) Really?

(9) Yeah? What about 'her'? Still lost in the bottom a bottle?

(10) Cliches? You? Never...

(11) Yeah? For how long?

(12) Surely not your brain?

(13) And he's back. See (11)

(14) A fruit salad?

Igor's Memorandum: an aside (1)

Just an FYI ... I hear those are popular nowadays. Pay attention, Stardust, you ignorant lout. 

Regarding popular vampiric myths...

GARLIC

Just because you decided 'garlic snuff' would be the next 'sliced bread', you and your kin are not allergic to the stuff, even if it does burn your nostrils, does not mean this is a myth. Stop misleading everyone, you pretentious time travelling bastard.

HOLY and OTHER WATER

There are no 'water nymphettes' in church fonts; stop logging your already thick and bloated head. You're not in the Renaissance any more. Holy water is no more dangerous to you than to any living being ... unless you have rabies, which you don't; you're dead. Stop pretending to choke on it, you drama queen. In addition, you do not have a fear of 'open water'; you weren't even on the Titanic. I will not write you into some sick fan fiction Edward de Iceberg. And yes, ice cream does give you blood freeze. Moron

RELIGIOUS ICONS

Wearing religious icons is not a 'fashion statement', as you so eloquently put it, you heretical fool. Furthermore, I don't care if you claim to have been baptised, it is never ok to 'feed' on the Communion Wine or to sing out of key when doing a solo, or hoping for a one sided duet with 'her'. I'm tired of writing apologies on your behalf; I'm your ghost writer, not your P.A.

Over and out

Igor. 

P.S. Stop bothering me. I'm in the middle of NaNoWriMo, you illiterate oaf; no, I will not write up your Shakespearean fanfic. 

Bugger off.

Moulin Jewels (part 1)

The stage is set with shimmering lights. Into the haze, I step. Edwina Stardust, gimp ballerina(1). Tonight is my big night. My shoes are laced, my lips are red, my cheeks are rouged and all around me there is silence. Anticipation. No one can stop me now.

It seems like a lifetime ago when I first set foot in this place. The mirror tells a different story. I see how much I’ve changed(2). Once so tall, so proud, so handsome, now I am beautiful, the queen of the dance. My sleek hair, now shiny obsidian, sparkles with orange streaks and golden highlights. Oh, how pretty my teal and cobalt peacock looks; a leotard of feathers bright; I shine with the rising dawn of the artificial sun. Orange filters across my brow, and the glitter strewn across me glows. I am ready.

A deep breath from the depths of my lungs sees me burst onto the stage. Like swans landing on water(3), I glide, floating, falling, soaring. My audience cheers. Tonight is the night; I am their nova. A thousand stars dazzle my hair overhead(4). The peacock has landed, the night is mine.

* * *

I awoke. Disappointment coursed through my veins as the ordinarily welcome gloom of sundown pierced the crack in my crypt and I rose - plain old Edward Dust(5). How could it be that I had not yet achieved my dream? The Moulin Rouge was calling me from across the square. I had to find a way onto that wonderful stage, into those fabulous, glittering costumes (6), into the hearts of the humans who watched, bedazzled, below.

For now, it was just a dream but I would find a way if it killed me. Edwina Stardust would be a sensation. I just had to get my foot in the door. As I pulled on my suit, the red thirst pulled at my concentration, its crimson tendrils clawing at my eyes, throat and heart, burning unbearably. I needed to feed.

The street was greasy, gloomy. A million shadows flitted in the ochre glow of the streetlights. I walked as calmly as any man night but inside … inside the thirst drove me. I walked faster and faster until I reached the red light district. A beautiful young lady of the night(7) beckoned me into a dark alley. I followed her, my predatory urge pumping through my body. Her last moments would be exquisite but they would be her last.

* * *

A throbbing, swelling, grinding. The press of flesh against flesh, blood against dust. Dry, empty veins. Her life coursing through her. Breathing, living. The rise and fall of her breast; the slow, gradual build, now rapid. Her vision narrowing, her inner lust exposed. Baser instincts ruling. Fire and water: fluids and heat.

I was familiar with this rhythm.

The press of lips against mouth, her tongue flicking, flickering. Dancing. I let mine reply; in answer, she ground closer. Her fingers moved towards her ache, bursting her buttons from their eyelets.

All of it was false. A game. The printed paper, a face, a figure. Ten, twenty. The notes rolled, stuffed between her brassier. A tease. My fingers slipped under her thong, drawing her close from the sides. Hers was mine to take, a service rendered, payment given, dues received.

In the streetlight, my teeth glistened. I saw the shock, the horror, and then the sly smile. She believed them fake, a fetish, a kink. “One of those,” her expression read, and with it, a shrug. She didn’t care until they pierced skin. By then, it was too late. Her jugular artery. Her eyes widened, her mouth twisted in silent scream. Paralysed with ecstasy, only dim realisation in the darkest part of her awareness realised her plight. She shook, then was still.

My fingers tousled her mouse-brown hair streaked with red and flaxen dye. Her yawning eyes, sandy brown, were pretty in death. I wondered. There was still time. Should I?

* * *

A moment later, I was trudging the cobbles towards the Moulin Rouge … My Moulin Rouge(8). I would learn to sparkle if it killed me(9).

Just at that moment, a bookshop caught my eye – a derelict old wreck with a few moth eaten books in the window. One of the books captured my imagination. Twelfth Night. How inspiring. A girl pretends to be a boy. That was it! The genius idea I had been looking for. I would disguise myself as a woman and apply for work in the Moulin Rouge(10).

I retraced my steps, found my poor victim, pale and pasty on the pavement. No-one had noticed her beautiful form, her now glassy opaque eyes. I lifted her corpse and, pushing my knee between her legs, propped her against a wall. I undid the zip on the back of her dress and slipped it over her alabaster torso. My mind pulsed with desire at the thought of what once coloured that porcelain skin. She was still within me, giving life to he who stole hers. It was peverse yet strangely satisfying. I would feed again tonight but first, I had more important things to attend to. With ruthless efficiency, I finished stripping her body of all its attire before running into the street and hailing a cab to the Ritz.

* * *

My erect nipples poked violently against the dress. I toyed with them, toyed with the cold, with pinching. My chest was too flat, my abs too smooth. The brassier did not fit. How could I flesh myself out? I wondered this as I tweaked and twisted, slow awareness of the cabby’s longer and longer stares from the mirror catching my attention. I smiled sweetly at him, and motioned he drive down a side street. The stage would wait a moment longer.

Cabbies were not good prey, I reminded myself, licking my fangs. The presence of hidden cameras, of being reported… my tongue licked my front canine clean. He was far too fleshy, not firm or tough enough for my tastes. Cheap cognac and tobacco stained his blood and it mixed with the cheap perfume of the whore. It was an interesting, if vile mix.

I took his wallet. Maybe my 'womanly' wiles were worth something after all.

* * *

Once installed in a luxury suite, I really missed the good old days when mirrors were my friends(11). I guessed I looked a bit rough but I couldn't be sure. I lay naked on the fine, Egyptian cotton sheets, feeling the soft fabric against my hot skin. Blood memories stirred. Female blood memories. She knew how to look amazing. I picked up the bedside phone.

“Room Service ... Beautician, hairdresser, make up artist, pronto ... Thank you.”

I lay back. This would be fun.

Within half an hour, a crack team of beauty whizz kids stripped my entire body of hair, added hair to my head, plucked, tweezed and exfoliated me. The sensual experience was unfamiliar to me, yet delicious. The only fly in the ointment, the make up artist … Sharon. From Saafend. Even now, her name fills me with contempt.

“Awright Daahlin!” her Essex drawl corroded my sensitive ears. For hours, she droned on, glottal stopping and whining like a bitch on heat, telling me how she made her way in Paris; how I missed England, in spite of its repugnance, its lack of fashion and especially its misery. I would shut her up for good … but not yet. I needed her. She massaged coloured ointments into my skin, pinning back my new strawberry blonde hair extensions before adding layer upon layer of highlighters, blushers, eyeshadows and some inexplicable goop called mascara. Manscara she called it. Manscara and guy liner. The girl was as full of vile puns as she was hot air(12). My look was now complete. She had to die.

* * *

Dying was such an interesting thing to watch, I decided, licking the tips of my fingers, and examining my nails. Sparkly, painted nails with stars and glitter. I admired the side of my neck, my shoulders and body. Glitter all over me. I turned back to Sharon. I wondered if our kind considered themselves malicious. She lay sprawled on the floor, eyes wide, begging, pleading. I strutted over to her, and those blue eyes followed me. Her fake blond hair twisted between my fingers. She tried to scream but her throat was silent. I knelt down, thighs splayed and took her face in my hands. As my fingers stroked her temples, she trembled. Pitiful. Mortals were all the same. She deserved a kiss for all her hard work.

Ending it all wasn’t as messy as I’d hoped(13). She had bled out too much, and I spat what gushed between my teeth back into her face. Filth.

I left the room almost as I found it with one final addition. Sharon’s fags on the bed, her leaking lighter, and the fire alarms triggered overhead.

My debut awaited.

Footnotes by Igor

(1) So you see … you haven't yet begun to see the depravity of Eddie's fantasies. Just wait dear reader … you ain't seen nothing yet!

(2) Honestly! That idiot chased his reflection away years ago.

(3) I despair of his constant reliance on clichés.

(4) The moron's indoors. If only I could give up.

(5) That's not even his real name. Has he lost it along with his reflection. I hate him.

(6) Will he never realise that sequins and vampires do not go together. It is a ludicrous idea.

(7) Isn't he aware of the irony?

(8) Bloody narcissist. He thinks the whole world is his playground.

(9) Please see footnote (6) Gah!

(10) Will he ever desist from his Shakespearean name dropping. He never even ate Shakespeare.

(11) They were never your friends.

(12) Is she the lost reflection he called his friend?

(13) Not enough he's a pyromaniac; he has to long to be a slob as well! How can anyone take such a 'vampire' seriously?