#WEP #flashfiction, my story, LOVE SUCKS. Vamps in Paris.

Hello all!

How’s your April going? I hope those participating in the A-Z Challenge are having a ball. I’ve enjoyed reading many of your stories, but this coming week it’s all about WEP (Write…Edit…Publish) for me. The prompt is Road Less Traveled and it’s a mixture of prose and some sort of poetry.

Maybe it’s because I’m working furiously on my paranormal romance trilogy at the mo’, but my mind flew straight to a funky little flash I wrote for Romantic Friday Writers (400 words) in 2015. The characters have haunted me, LOL, so I dragged them out of their coffins, dusted them off, and let them tell a little more of their story. They will probably find themselves on a page or two in a flash fiction book I intend to write one day!

I’m early with my post, but a few have begun to post so I’m anxious to get my little ole story on the page. Hope you enjoy…


Top left: Drac-Kulah, Top right: Dracula

Bottom left: Ruby Black, aka Snow White, Bottom right: Doc Marten.


 When you’ve lived for as long as moi, you crave change. Sometimes, you’ve just gotta find another way, another road. I’m done with sleeping all day in a room with velvet drapes drawn, hiding from you-know-what, microwaving blood when the street food lets me down.

What’s a vamp to do all century?

I know what you’re thinking:

Go haunt the streets, you sicko,

Suck the tourists dry.

Drink a few homeless.

Who’s gonna miss ‘em?

Who’s gonna cry?

Been there, done that. I need to shake things up a bit. I need another path. One less traveled.

As the sun dropped down from that oh-so-sicko-blue sky, I exited the hotel and sashayed down Montmartre’s glitter strip, feeling ever-so-hipster-ish.

Black cap sideways,

Baggy black trousers,

Black T-shirt under my

black shiny coat.

Hiding my black heart.

You get that I dig black, right?

Love Montmartre. My current Parisian area of interest. Well, current, doh. It’s been my favorite for a coupla hundred years. Is about the only suburb not razed by that sicko Baron Haussman. I like old things. Love Montmartre.

Tourists gawking,

Homeless hawking,

Blackboard artist chalking:


We’re on the same page, honey-childe.

Then suddenly, next door to that garish pretending-to-be-old reinvented mill, Moulin Rouge,

I see it: ‘A VENDRE’ – (‘FOR SALE’) if you haven’t mastered the fourteenth-most-popular language in the world.

But I digress. What happened next? Hang with me. Or not.

My synapses zapped.

My planets aligned.

A contract to sign.

Oh, happy day! Time for a moonwalk! Slip. Slide. Slap.

I’ve accumulated a tidy sum over the centuries, you know, so I can easily afford Parisian real estate. Compound interest compounds I read somewhere. No business degrees 400 years ago.

So before you could say,

‘More blood.

I’ll take it to go.

Make it quick, you know?’

The business belonged to moi. If you don’t know what moi means, pfft. Work on your language skills or get outta here.

The little bar was perfect — vamp chic –

Blood-red carpet,

Black walls, (or they will be)

Red bar counter,

Black halls.

Suited my little black er, heart.

The pictures clinched the deal –

Horror-movie posters

Murder and mayhem

on every wall.

Go me.

Buying this joint means I’ll no longer have to prowl the mean streets. The gendarmes can move on. Fight real crime. But now I got me my own gloomy little hidey-hole.

Let ‘em come to me.

Bar flies are tasteee

Full of good ole whiskee

au go go.

‘Ya not going to run this place by yaself, are ya?’

I jumped from dreaming of bar flies and admiring my Dracula poster which was so like looking in the mirror – Just kidding!

Black cloak,

Super handsome face,

Super handsome long locks

I’m ace!

Not that dude.

But like, wow! This chicka! Will you look at her! Just promenaded down my 15th Century wonkedy-wonkedy stairs! Right into my Venus fly trap.

Flowing black tresses,

Lush curves poured

into little black dress,

Black fishnet stockings.

Oh so shocking!

‘You offering your services, er, miss?’ I licked my lips. Tried not to look too obvious.

 “Ya, moi, who else? Ya blind or somethin’? I thought those black glasses ya wearin’ were, ya know, to hide ya red eyes.’

 This chicka was something else. If only she knew. Something more serious than the old chanvre (look it up!) going on here.

‘You look, like, twelve years of old. Shoot me some ID.’ I sunk into my oversized red leather chair.

 She whipped out the plastic.  ‘Looks can be deceivin’, busta. Ya look, like, nineteen, but ya might have baggy eyes behind those shades.’

 She winked at me, cheeky minx. I took them off so she could admire my handsomeness.

 I flipped the ID back at her, watched it twirl in its arc and land in her white little dewdrop hand. Fake as, who cared?

 I licked my lips, again. Gotta stop that. I ran my tongue around my teeth, getting ready for the big suck. I want this girl-child. She’s def on the menu tonight.

 ‘What d’ya think, Monsieur Slim Shady? I bin workin’ bars for many a yaah. Know sum tricks, I do.’

 ‘It’s not that kind of bar. It’ll be a clean operation. And speak English or French or something. You’re a cross between American Western and Eliza Dolittle.’

 ‘Forgit the pop culture, Pop. A clean operation?’

 ‘Drinks, tapas, music…’

 ‘Rap? Classical? Country? What do French people like?’

 ‘Never mind. Too long a story for now. What’s your name?’ I clasped her black-gloved hand. ‘I’m Drac Kulah.’

 ‘Really? A dark character.’

 ‘Really.’ I hope she digged the deep, dark tone.

 ‘Well I’m Ruby Black, but I go by—’

 ‘Let me think. Snow White?’

 ‘Right on Drac. Hilaarrious. Aren’t we a pair!’

 ‘You’re hired. No funny business or you’ll be out on your pretty butt.’

 ‘My butt’s pretty? I don’t think ya s’posed ta say that anymore.’ She twirled.

Black lacy dress flowing

like waves

around her thighs.

A tantalizing glimpse of

shapely snow-white leg and

a flash of lacy black knickers.

But her Doc Marten’s are kickers.

‘That’s not all I got.’ She sidled up and grabbed me around the neck, her gloved fingers tugging my black ‘do.

 Who needs to go hunting? This tasty morsel’s mine. Right here. Right now. A gift from er, the gods. An entrée before the main.

Woo hoo to me.

Boo hoo for her.

Taking her in my steely arms, I aimed my sharp little popping-down fangs at her jugular, then…wow! Where’s her throbbing pulse! Where’s my drink?

‘Ha, I knew ya were the Real Slim Shady, you dark, evil, blood-suckin’ sicko.’

 I knew the minute she walked in, but you probably think I’m lying. As if a vamp would lie. I’ve learned a thing or two in 400 years. I know everything. I’ve read all the literature on the planet. Just wanted to see how this new road played out. Like that Robert Frost guy said in a poem I read on the internet, “two roads diverged”. Then whammo!

WORDS: 994

Hope you had as much fun reading this as I had writing it. This is a WEP (Write…Edit…Publish) post for the April WEP challenge, Road Less Traveled.  Travel over to WEP and sign up there if you have an entry that would suit.


4 thoughts on “#WEP #flashfiction, my story, LOVE SUCKS. Vamps in Paris.

  1. Énorme ! Prose woven into poetry and so funny ! Thank you so much for this Denise. A perfect story for a Franco-British Vampire, kidding ! Poetess. Have a wonderful WEP month and good luck on your NaNo.


  2. Hi Denise – it’s wonderful … I loved it – ‘cept got disturbed this end … so will return to properly re-read … but I might enjoy their company here – cheers Hilary

    Liked by 1 person

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