SOMA VAMP, an excerpt from a novella in progress
Beulah codes games South of Market in San Francisco and really really wants to be a vampire...
She wants to die spectacularly, suddenly, explosively with bits of Beulah stuck in the hair of gawkers and bystanders. Or, grasp the life immortal laid out so enticingly in Twilight and True Blood. She loved Anne Rice’s book Interview with a Vampire, and really loved the movie. Living in a dark warm decadence made up of handsome men with hair that never falls out wearing puffy shirts, tight pants and that pale, pale luminosity. She pictures yummy LeStat de Lioncourt, the thousand year old vampire being interviewed – he is dead sexy with ice blue eyes against a background of white. She forgives the casting of Tom Cruise, figuring the men were shorter then, what with the crappy diets before the blood regimen. For those particular vampires, she is ready to offer up hot holy Blood, swim upstream against the River of Life while hunky immortals pillage her shores. Just not death in any ordinary way, not from some wasting disease, or Gaia forbid, old age.
Beulah looks in the garishly lit bathroom mirror, sees a freshly scrubbed face looking back, desperately seeking mascara, and opens her makeup drawer. The bluetooth speaker in the bathroom which is only slightly better than the embedded speaker on her phone warbles out her “Spooky Cool” playlist, and she gets back to thinking about vampire life. She read Holy Blood, Holy Grail years ago and still wonders – are there people walking around right now descended from Jesus Christ? Good Gaia, they hold up chalices and say “this is the blood of Christ”! And why not chew the wafers – they’re not really the Body of Christ, right? Now who has the crazy rituals? Pretending wine is someone’s blood isn’t savage in what universe? Of course, drinking only blood these days would resemble the Paleolithic diet craze, it would fit right in with the raw food movement, they’d call it a Plasma Cleanse or something equally trendy. Mascara lumps having been carefully removed, Beulah checks carefully for any blemishes. Nope, face checks out, so a quick dusting of face powder, and the jangled mess of makeup in her bathroom drawer gets closed up, ready to work its magic again.
She fingers her iPod and replays Eagle’s song Witchy Woman, listening carefully to the lyrics – especially “Raven hair and ruby lips, sparks fly from her fingertips” – yep, that’s me, she thinks. That line pretty much describes her present situation, the nowness of her power, all currents of electric youth and yearning. Like right now, in her mid-20’s, her face, her body, her hair will never look better. Eventually, age will bow her head and slow her walk. There will be sagging and wrinkling – all that handiwork of gravity’s pull. But what if it could be stopped at this very moment? Witchy Woman is still playing: “I know you want a lover, but let me tell you brother, she’s been sleepin’ in the devil’s bed”. If the devil looks like Brad Pitt - yeah, ok, I’ll sleep in that bed. I am a wannabe vampire, frozen forever in the best body I will ever have.
She thinks longingly about the magic of compounding, just letting the money make money by building up layers of itself. It takes time, decades even, but just a lump of cash will grow and grow, until eventually, she will not have to work. Vampires probably save their money in Certificates of Deposit – super safe, and even at 1%, think of how many dollars that would be in 100 years. And as for accumulating that wealth in the first place, of course, she would have to find a job with night hours, but with telecommuting and texting, it could work. It’s not like coders were up during daylight hours anyway.
Beulah shakes her black curls, gives herself one last look in the mirror. Satisfied with the results, she puts on her jacket, a floor length black leather coat she nabbed on sale at North Beach Leather, grabs her matching purse, and swirls out of her SOMA loft to meet her blind date. Gerard is his name, and he was recommended by Angie, a fellow game coder, so it’s not entirely “blind”. Angie met him at a Goth club and said he was a little older and a lot more sophisticated than her usual boy toys, not that they set the bar very high. Boys who design PlayStation games are never described as sophisticated. Horny, yes, thank Gaia, but sophisticated? Not a chance!
From the ground floor, she embarks on a brisk walk, deftly sidestepping puddles of yellow yuck – the smell marking the edges of Harrison Street as “up and coming”. Her brand new Versace Palazzo Booties made a satisfying thunking clatter, not at all like that plastic-y rattle sound cheaper shoes made. You can hear the quality, she thinks, not to mention they made my butt look fabulous.
...to be continued
Written in 2015 Copyright © Catherine G. Tripp
Beulah looks in the garishly lit bathroom mirror, sees a freshly scrubbed face looking back, desperately seeking mascara, and opens her makeup drawer. The bluetooth speaker in the bathroom which is only slightly better than the embedded speaker on her phone warbles out her “Spooky Cool” playlist, and she gets back to thinking about vampire life. She read Holy Blood, Holy Grail years ago and still wonders – are there people walking around right now descended from Jesus Christ? Good Gaia, they hold up chalices and say “this is the blood of Christ”! And why not chew the wafers – they’re not really the Body of Christ, right? Now who has the crazy rituals? Pretending wine is someone’s blood isn’t savage in what universe? Of course, drinking only blood these days would resemble the Paleolithic diet craze, it would fit right in with the raw food movement, they’d call it a Plasma Cleanse or something equally trendy. Mascara lumps having been carefully removed, Beulah checks carefully for any blemishes. Nope, face checks out, so a quick dusting of face powder, and the jangled mess of makeup in her bathroom drawer gets closed up, ready to work its magic again.
She fingers her iPod and replays Eagle’s song Witchy Woman, listening carefully to the lyrics – especially “Raven hair and ruby lips, sparks fly from her fingertips” – yep, that’s me, she thinks. That line pretty much describes her present situation, the nowness of her power, all currents of electric youth and yearning. Like right now, in her mid-20’s, her face, her body, her hair will never look better. Eventually, age will bow her head and slow her walk. There will be sagging and wrinkling – all that handiwork of gravity’s pull. But what if it could be stopped at this very moment? Witchy Woman is still playing: “I know you want a lover, but let me tell you brother, she’s been sleepin’ in the devil’s bed”. If the devil looks like Brad Pitt - yeah, ok, I’ll sleep in that bed. I am a wannabe vampire, frozen forever in the best body I will ever have.
She thinks longingly about the magic of compounding, just letting the money make money by building up layers of itself. It takes time, decades even, but just a lump of cash will grow and grow, until eventually, she will not have to work. Vampires probably save their money in Certificates of Deposit – super safe, and even at 1%, think of how many dollars that would be in 100 years. And as for accumulating that wealth in the first place, of course, she would have to find a job with night hours, but with telecommuting and texting, it could work. It’s not like coders were up during daylight hours anyway.
Beulah shakes her black curls, gives herself one last look in the mirror. Satisfied with the results, she puts on her jacket, a floor length black leather coat she nabbed on sale at North Beach Leather, grabs her matching purse, and swirls out of her SOMA loft to meet her blind date. Gerard is his name, and he was recommended by Angie, a fellow game coder, so it’s not entirely “blind”. Angie met him at a Goth club and said he was a little older and a lot more sophisticated than her usual boy toys, not that they set the bar very high. Boys who design PlayStation games are never described as sophisticated. Horny, yes, thank Gaia, but sophisticated? Not a chance!
From the ground floor, she embarks on a brisk walk, deftly sidestepping puddles of yellow yuck – the smell marking the edges of Harrison Street as “up and coming”. Her brand new Versace Palazzo Booties made a satisfying thunking clatter, not at all like that plastic-y rattle sound cheaper shoes made. You can hear the quality, she thinks, not to mention they made my butt look fabulous.
...to be continued
Written in 2015 Copyright © Catherine G. Tripp