Title: Knorg’s Vampire Tarot
Category: Paranormal
Author Pen name:
Knorg
Email: paxgronk@hotmail.com
Description: These card stories use a variety of well-known and
popular as well as more obscure characters, from Marge Simpson to Elvis, from
Bloodrayne to Jon Arbuckle, as well as my own characters. Each story is around
1000 words.
Stories: Death/Rebirth by
Vampire, catfight, sex, girl-on-girl, and similar.
Song lyrics used without
permission.
Characters/places/trademarks
that aren’t mine are used for this parody without permission.
This story concept is a
parody of Fifteen Painted Cards from a Vampire Tarot by Neil Gaiman.
She ran the blade down my
chest. A thin trickle of blood followed it, and she lent down to lick with her
long cold tongue. Her tongue was very dry, a corpse’s tongue, but grew thick
and wet with the blood.
I didn’t say anything. I
couldn’t. I was paralysed. The pain wasn’t as bad as I would have expected, but
far worse than I was comfortable with. I felt her tongue along the length of
the wound. She was colder than ice, and I was sure that would numb the pain.
With my head still, I couldn’t see her. I saw the knifepoint though, as a
little blood dripped from it near my eye.
To be utterly paralysed
and helpless, under the control of someone who means you harm, is a terrifying
experience. After she’d cut the clothes from my body, and tossed my camera
across the stones, I knew she meant me harm.
She paused her licking,
and I heard her cold, dead voice. Her voice was raspy, and I imagined her vocal
chords reforming from dust.
“I can taste your anger.
It’s like a bitter, almost vinegary wine. You’re smart enough to realise that
your life is a mess because of you, rather than anyone else, but you can’t stop
your anger. I often thought about what it might be like to taste an emotion.
When I was quick you’d never have made it past infancy.”
I assumed she meant my
normal everyday life, working a dead end job with few friends. Not the wrong
turn I’d taken which lead to me lying here on cool stone, with a corpse supping
my blood like wine. I wondered if she’d been some kind of psychoanalyst before
she became… whatever she was now. A raggedly clad corpse.
She slashed me again,
cutting deeper. I wanted to beg, to plead with her to leave me be. I felt my
tongue move the teensiest inch while hers licked quickly and strongly at my
flowing life. She drank without speaking for fifteen minutes, according to the
peals of a distant church. I was starting to feel cold, except for my erection.
Procreation is such a basic natural urge after all. I wanted to pass on my
genes before I died.
The knife’s blade felt
like a punch as it sank through my shoulder. I heard the point scrape the
flagstone, and then she pulled it lose. Droplets splattered my face, and I saw
hers again. The rot was gone. She looked merely recently dead. My blood was
rejuvenating her. There were teeth set in her jaw again, where before many were
loosened.
Vampire. That was the
word. Sweet Jesus. It hit me like a sledgehammer to the head.
She was pretty, in life.
Prettier than any girl I’d ever known intimately, but there was a sense of the
arachnid about her. I was ‘minded of a spider’s venom paralysing food, as I too
was paralysed and suffering. Tears ran down my immobile cheeks. She licked the
salty track, and then bit into my shoulder wound.
The noise of her feeding
was repulsive. She was like a kid trying for the last bit of a thick drink as
she slurped my warm life into her body. I felt the blood pooling ‘neath the
knife’s exit wound, and heard her muffled description of the taste of my pain.
Some kind of black bird
flew across my vision, high above the hole in the ruined roof of the ‘scheduled
for redevelopment’ manor house. She moved, positioning her body on mine.
I was inside her. Did it
make me a necrophile? I didn’t think so, for I was not consenting in this act.
She was warm by then, warmed by my blood. She was rocking, allowing herself my
length. Her long raven locks looked luxuriantly cared for now, far removed from
the greyed stands I’d first seen her with.
“Now you’re mine, boy,”
she murmured, while licking my blood from her lips, “my little sleeping
beauty!”
I could not appreciate the
humour. I’d come into the old house with my camera, ready to record the decay.
I’d found the old fashioned spinning wheel, rotten down beneath the open roof.
I’d reached for the silver needle, a souvenir perhaps. She was in the shadows
then.
I hadn’t moved since,
beyond the rise and fall of my chest. There was a glow of life in her eyes now.
I imagined mine were glazed. I felt so weak, but for the heat and pleasure in
my groin. The pain in my chest, my shoulder, they tempered it, made it
stronger. I wondered if I would reach a little death before a large one. The
girl moved faster, hot and wet and pleasurable, and it seemed certain.
She bit me again, sensuous
red lips against my lightly tanned flesh. Her hair fell about me as she tore
into my throat. The arterial blood pumped strongly into her as my climax rose,
pleasure and pain inseparable. Blood and semen flowed together into her. I
wanted to hold her to me, grateful in that moment for the unique experience. He
held me instead, moaning into my throat as she took my life.
I found no soul’s release,
no heaven and no hell. There was not a drop of blood left in my body when she
took her leave. I was desiccated flesh lying beneath innumerable rainstorms and
starry nights. The wheel of fortune and life span on, but I took no part in it.
She left me the knife, though, and the spinning wheel, and perhaps her
blessing.
And then you pricked your
finger, and that drop of blood gave me enough strength to wield my blade.
And now you’re mine, boy.