| Don Calude Devious: Cannibal Rapture, After The Thirst And The School Of Jim | |
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Posted by: |
steven_stuart 10:58 pm UTC 05/15/11 |
| I am very happy to see the internet buzz that is being generated by Ryan's upcoming production of "Don Claude Devious: Cannibal Rapture". Just Google if you are interested. There seems to be a few talented writers who belong to this board (like The Wolf, Scaramouche and Vin). I would like to think that they are all (and I have only mentioned a few) members of the School of Jim (as Rembrandt had younger people who followed him). I know from things that Ryan has written in this forum that he at least would consider himself to be from the School of Jim. I am not talking about imitating Jim, as Diane Warren did when she wrote "I'd Lie For You" for Meat Loaf. It is just that Jim is an inspiration for his talented fans. He inspires them to get in touch with their creativity and put their work out there, as Ryan will be doing in October and Jacob Davies (The Wolf) has recently done on Jim's Facebook page. I haven't seen Jacob posting the story he wrote on this forum (although he may have), so I hope he won't mind me posting it in this thread. It is quite brilliant and well worth a read. I agree with someone called Faye Allen who reviewed Jacob's story and said: "Very very good, nice to have a vampire story without all the romance and that doesn't completely bore me (Dracula) I really liked it, will you be uploading more??? Also you have a couple spelling mistakes but other than that its very good." I myself was actually quite surprised because I thought of The Wolf as a film maker. My favourite quotes from Jacob's story (which I will post below) are: "He looked at her neck and winced as he saw the extent of the damage that he had inflicted. For all the years and nights he had been doing what he had been doing, the sight of seeing his victims savaged throats never lost its impact, for this was when he saw in full what he had done, when his inhuman thirst had been quenched and what humanity was left inside of him regained control." and also: "He had been walking home one night, the last night he had been human, through the gas lit, foggy streets of Victorian London, when he happened upon a monster, a monster with the face of an angel." Before I post the entire story could I just ask Ryan to keep the board up to date with the "Don Claude Devious: Cannibal Rapture" situation. I know that Jim and all board members wish him well. And now for "After The Thirst" by Jacob Davies: "This one would be different, he told himself. He would stop himself before he reached the point of no return, he would let this one live. That’s what he told himself every time, every victim, and each time he failed, each time he lost control, and just like all those nights before, he could feel the life of the young woman in his arms slipping away, her body becoming cold and pale as he gorged himself. He withdrew from her, the copper taste in his mouth, which mere moments ago he craved so much, now sickening him, and it took a sheer force of will for him not to throw up. He looked at her neck and winced as he saw the extent of the damage that he had inflicted. For all the years and nights he had been doing what he had been doing, the sight of seeing his victims savaged throats never lost its impact, for this was when he saw in full what he had done, when his inhuman thirst had been quenched and what humanity was left inside of him regained control. Doing his best to regain his composure, he lifted the woman from his couch and carried her into her his bathroom, placing her face down in his bathtub. He would leave her there for a few hours; let her...leak. The thought of him “Finishing her off” made his skin crawl, but from his past experience he knew that any stray drops of blood could leave “Breadcrumbs” that could lead back to him. Turning towards his Bathroom sink, he turned the water on, and after a few moments he splashed his face, noting how the blood that had been smeared on his lips briefly diluted the water, before it ran into the drain and the water became clear once more. He looked up from his sink and into the mirror above it, and stared hard into his, transparent, glass like reflection with regret, He hadn’t always been this way of course, before he had been a good, honest man, with a family, friends, until the night he had strayed all but once, once!, and he had paid for it for the rest of his life, and then some.He had been walking home one night, the last night he had been human, through the gas lit, foggy streets of Victorian London, when he happened upon a monster, a monster with the face of an angel. A young woman had called to him from a distance, he couldn’t make out her face in the fog, but he saw her gesture for him to follow, called to him. In any other circumstance, being the well grounded, faithful man that he was, he would have simply walked on and paid her no heed. But there was something about her, something in her voice, something that, even through the fog, he could see in her and it made every fibre of his being burn with an uncontrollable, curious desire. She had led him into a dark, secluded alley, and it was here where he saw her up close. She wasn’t overtly provocative, she was sweet looking, with an understated beauty of someone who was almost unaware of it, and the affects that it had on those around her. This was, of course, what she had him wanted to think. Her vulnerable looking exterior hiding the creature within, and when he was at his most unguarded, she had pounced on him, draining the blood from his neck, much like he had done to only minuets previous, except unlike the girl that now laid dead in his Bath tub, his attacker had left him alive, and although he had been dazed and close to death, he still remembered what the girl had said to him he as lay on the cold stone pavement, “What about your wife,” she had sneered at him. “I’ve seen her, how she adores you. What would she have to say, if she saw you with little old me, it takes a man far removed from god’s influence to betray his beloved sir, and its my duty to mark you out to him, to everyone.” The last thing he remembered was her creeping towards him, after that he had fallen un-consciousness. When he awoke, he was something all together different from the creature he had once been. He remembered the sun, shining down on his face, and how it stung, how it burnt. Years later, having travelled the globe, lived through two World Wars and seen technological advancements he never could never have dreamed off as a child, he was still doing the same thing, killing and covering his tracks. Not living, simply excising. He was a coward, just like he had been in his human life, so he could never sum up the courage to take his own life, and he was never in one place long enough for somebody else to do it for him, and he hated himself for that. He returned to the living room, looking down at where he and the girl had struggled, he saw a handbag. He picked it up and hastily rummaged through it. He pulled out a mobile phone; on its display was the girls name and address.“Jade Collette, 19 Dawson Road”. He sighed in relive, that was outside the city, in one of the nearby neighbouring towns, once she was reported missing, he would have no need to worry about the police or anyone else snooping around. The fact that this relived only made him feel of a monster, the girl he had killed was someone’s daughter, maybe someone’s lover. She wasn’t an un-attractive girl. All those close to her would never see her again, never know where she had gone to that day, how she had met her end. But the worst part was that she could never say goodbye. What made this girl’s demise more painful to him is that he had not been looking for “company” that night. No, his encounter with her was most unexpected. In the hours proceeding, he had been out in the city, wandering from place to place, usually cafes or restaurants, anywhere with lots of people. Not so he could pick out someone to “entertain”, rather the complete opposite, being around large groups of people kept him and his unnatural hunger in check, because if he lost control in a crowded area, they would all see what he was, and he could barely stomach the thought of that, being looked on as monster, even though in his long since still heart, he knew that was exactly what he was. He just didn’t want it “confirmed” for him. He would usually do this during the day, a hooded coat and lots of sun-cream negating (most of) the sun’s harmful rays. The day was nearing its end; the sky burned a soothing orange as the sun set in the distance. He had had begun to make his way home before the night took dominance, he could control himself in the day, but when the night fell, the number of people in the city depleted, and the few that remained became all too tempting when they were draped in the light of the moon. He was swift and unseen getting home, his “condition” had given him speed that any athlete would have been envious off. Reaching his apart block, he stopped just outside the door and looked up his window, there was a light, that probably would have been invisible but what he could see clearly, shining from his apartment. It had only been there a second, but he knew someone was there. He entered the apartment block and swiftly made his way the stairs and to his front door. There, he took out his key and opened the door. Almost immediately upon his entry, a beam of light met his gaze. He made no attempt to shield his eyes; instead he had them locked on the light’s source, a torch, being held by a young woman. He shut the door behind him and slowly began to advance. She was saying something to him, but he couldn’t hear her, all he could hear was the sound of her heart pumping, how it grew faster and faster as he approached. It was the end of another long, empty day. All his resistance was spent. Tonight he would drink. Despite all this, he apologised to her, she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. He didn’t want hurt her, but it now was truly out of his control. Still, she was trying to say something, but her heartbeat was now near deafening to him, every fibre of his being ached with a beastly hunger. He didn’t hear her scream as leapt upon her. He began to rummage further through her bag, hoping that its contents reveal more about her. . He felt as if he owed it to her, like he had done for the other unfortunates that had encountered him before, he remembered each and every one of them, and the girl in his bathtub would be no exception. After a few moments, he pulled out a notepad. He opened it, hoping it was something like a diary. Something that could provide some insight into her life, however small, he owed it to her. He opened the book, and it became apparent he owed her nothing at all. The book had not so much been a diary, but more of an outlet for her frustration. Frustration of her family, her education, and she had wanted more, how she had wanted “The night” He read further, she had detailed how she had longed for a release from her mundane lifestyle, and how HE had seemed to provide it for her. She had been following him. The notepad detailed how she had tracked him. There were lists of the cafe’s he regularly visited, charity shops he would sometimes visit when he needed new clothes, banks, news agents, no matter how much or how little he had visited them, the girl would somehow be there make record of it. He looked further still in the notepad, they were drawings off him, some with near photo realism. A number of these drawings featured the two of them together, in some they were simply standing , side by side, whilst in others they were doing far more than just standing!. THAT’S what she had been saying to him, the words he was deaf to only moments ago only now processing in his mind. She had said how she had waited for him; how she knew he would come for her eventually, how she had wished for someone like him to come and save her for as long as she could remember. This girl, who he thought had simply broke into his house to rob him of what little he had, was in face his stalker. She had tracked every move he made. Replicated his image countless times and had sought him so he could “Save” her. There was no guilt now, only a cold anger. He felt as if he had been tricked, lured into fulfilling some deranged teen tearaway’s sick notion of romance. He had committed murder on a girl who wished a fete worst then death upon herself because she, as her diary had pretentiously put it, didn’t “Connect” with other people. The horror at what he had done was not bought on because of his hunger; it was bought on through circumstances beyond his control, by a young girl wanting to share his curse with him because she was unwilling to strife for a better life by herself. What he wouldn’t have given to be in HER situation, to be alive and loved by a family he would not entirely outlive. He walked briskly back into the bathroom. He placed a hand on the girl’s cold dead wrist. It wasn’t too late. She wanted to become a monster, he would grant her her wish. Not because it was what she wanted, but because she would now life to regret her misguided desire to throw her life away for some over romanticised notion that those like him could somehow solve her problems. No, he would show her what it truly meant to be a child of the night, He bite hard into his hand, leaving a large open wound that dripped with blood. He dangled it over the girl’s savaged throat, and the blood on his hand began to drip into it. Almost immediately, the girl’s body, which mere moments ago had been dead and still, began to convulse and fit violently. Soon she would wake up cold and in pain, and after she had adjusted, she would know what it felt it like to be a monster. In his eyes she already was, He watched this for a few moments, a hateful smirk escaping him as she got, what he felt at least, what she deserved, what she had wanted, what she would live to regret.Without looking back, he left the bathroom and then the apartment. He would find a new place, somewhere far away, but not to live in squalor as he had been. He and the beast within him were one now. He would seek out more people like the girl he killed tonight. There were more like her, some young, and some old, who would look upon him as a means of starting anew, being reborn. The truth was, he was literally a dead man walking, in body and soul, and he would make it an eternity’s work to make sure that those who deserved it, those who would so willingly give their life to an eternal torture, would forever feel the same" Oh my goodness. I think we've got a young Hitchcock on the board (and Ryan is a young Sondheim). Jim attracts very interesting fans. | |
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