Your kiss was love everlasting. Under the Arc de Triomphe, in the shadows of the night, your lips cool on mine. You nipped my neck. I winced, but I've had worse, and money means more on a cold night than a bruise that fades. You touched your tongue to mine and I tasted the iron bitterness of blood, yours mixed with mine. When you let me go, and I had the clink of silver in my purse, I went home and slept like the dead, not waking until dark. But I wasn't hungry. Usually I wake ravenous, and so the silver coins went unspent. I walked to my usual spot, a quiet alley on the Champs Elysée, and waited for the restaurants to close. A young gentleman walked by and I caught his eye. We fumbled in the darkness. As he came, I felt the urge to bite. I drank his blood, hot, rich and spiced with fine food, whispered everlasting love in his ear, and walked home with his wallet in my pocket.
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Writing short fiction, monologues and plays