May 26, 2009
My name is Daniel Franklin. I just got this leather-bound beauty of a book in a garage sale. Its covers are smooth and black; the pages, yellowed and antique in texture—no doubt a detail I will become fond of as time goes on. Hell, I already like it. Gives the book a classical feel—such a delightful thing, don’t you agree?
But I digress. Today was just full of ventures to break the rut into which my life had sunk. First, I tried that new eatery on Eighth, and then, I bought this book at an old out-of-the-way garage sale in Eatonville. Such a kind old woman selling them, and the cookies she gave to buyers were just delicious. I may go back just to get one, if not to acquire the recipe itself!
Well, my cat Bartolome is keeping me company tonight, and I must cut this first, rather short entry to a close. I hope to update this with the memoirs of my life many, many times.
May 27, 2009
Daniel again. Today was as boring as usual. Even my favorite book couldn’t alleviate the cloud of boredom over my head. I’m starting to find my “best friend,” Mark, to be a tad annoying. Mark is nothing special—normal American family man from the suburbs.
Is there something wrong with me if I start to think some human beings as disposable? It earlier crossed my mind how uninteresting some of the robotic creatures I liked to keep in my company really are.
Ashley, with her endless list of pet names for her latest boy toy.
Stuart, his mumbling about the paranormal, UFOs and the like. Though his theories are interesting, they’re still about the same thing every day.
Is it really wrong to think of these beings as just packs of meat that shouldn’t have even been given a working brain? Death will be a mercy to them, once they reach that fateful day—
Wait, what am I writing? These are my friends; what the hell came over me?
Well, I did stop by that sweet old woman’s house today. We shared a plate of some of those delectable cookies with some tea, the flavor of which I just couldn’t place. Such a sweet old woman; it is too bad much of her family is dead or has forgotten about her. Her name is Susan Anderson, and her home is filled with so many curiosities from the ages of old, and it just fascinates me so. I must go back there again sometime.
I must pull this entry to a close. I am still asking myself how I could think such horrible things as I did about my closest co-workers.
May 28, 2009
I am going to be rambling tonight. I woke up because of a….well, I don’t know if this was a bad dream or a good dream. I remember it so vividly, even though dreams have almost never stuck in my head since the days of my puberty, and many of them were less confusing and a little more…wet.
This one was strange, felt more like a memory than a dream, though before now I hadn’t been aware of such a memory. It was when I was barely five years old. I was the son of the town butcher. My teenage sister at the time loved me, and I loved her. I never knew she was sad in any way; she always seemed happy enough. I never knew her true thoughts. Even as I write this, I still don’t understand.
In my dream, I was toddling through the house, but, something struck me as being amiss. One of daddy’s knives was missing. I looked up at the wooden knife block, seeing the curious gap in the row of black grips. Daddy always said to tell him when there was a knife gone from his counter.
For whatever reason, I didn’t pay attention to his rule and continued on in my dream. Suddenly, I was pushing my way into my sister’s room.
She was on her bed, her arms hanging off of each side of her bed, dripping with some dark red liquid. It looked almost like… juice.
I walked over and dragged my finger across one of the pools of red liquid before placing my finger in my mouth and sucking. It was not a pleasant taste… rather, it tasted like some of those shavings left over when Daddy sharpened his knives.
The rest seemed to happen in slow motion. Mommy walked in and found us, she screamed and fell on the bed over my sissy. I tugged on her dress.
“What’s wrong mommy? Sissy’s just sleeping… and she made juice!”
…that’s all I remember of the dream. It was chilling. I remember it, and I think I will continue to think about it. I can’t shake it. Is it an actual memory that I put behind me?
I can still taste the “juice” in the dream. It tasted heavily of iron… but also… sweet.
June 9, 2009
I have an explanation as to why I have been absent.
Mark has died… he got in a car crash and bled to death. Oh god… poor little Justine; she’s going to be five next week and now she doesn’t have a father with whom to spend her birthdays.
Mona, his wife, is a wreck. His funeral service is on Sunday. I will miss him dearly. I’ve known him since we were both just in kindergarten, you see.
I have been like a ghost these past couple of days. The boss told me to take some days off from work at the office, at least until after the funeral. It will be hard to cope with this loss, but I believe I will come through all this with my head held high.
-A small trickle of blood is shown on the side of the page-
Oh my, a paper cut… such trivial little things—tiny, thin, they heal in less than an hour if they are treated right, but they bleed like the dickens until they do. Agh, that memory…
They only sting, but you can always feel them nagging at you for the time they’re there. Also, the blood… it has that same taste of the blood in my memory. Most people find the taste too metallic. No one tastes the sweet side of the bodily fluid.
What am I saying? It is revolting! Such a barbaric thing to do, drink blood, to say it’s sweet… even if it is.
June 12, 2009
I have been fired
I have drunk my own blood
It is delicious, so sweet, so thick. I just love it. I gave it some thought for the last couple of days, and the liquid is almost magical, isn’t it? Such a deep red… mysterious and again, thick.
I love it; I would drink all the blood out of my own body if it wouldn’t kill me—but now that I gave thought to it, trying to keep this new taste of mine at bay was just plain asinine. It is a beautiful thing, prettier than the average rose. Nothing can beat it.
Though… my thoughts are now starting to wander. If my own blood tastes this good, how am I to know that other people’s blood doesn’t taste better? I must find out. Let the consequences not sway mine hand. I will have my sweet elixir, my sparkling cider. My red wine.
June 15, 2009
6 o’clock PM
Tonight, I will sample another’s blood. It will be that sweet old Susan Anderson. She won’t be missed anyway, so why not have her be my first? It will be like a mercy to her, being so old and near death already. I bet her blood has aged like sweet, sweet wine.
I will bring my two closest friends with me. You see, Mark is coming along for this excursion into the night, along with my sweet sister Alexis. They understand and support me. They know how sweet blood really is. They know that I need it, I crave it, my body yearns for it. Yes, with this knife and this glass, they will help me sample the selfishly unshared blood of Susan Anderson.
She welcomed me! She thinks I am just here to share another cup of tea. She did not even question the knife and glass; hell, she even put them on her cabinet, as if on display! Oh well, I do not need a knife.
I have this pen, and as everyone says, the pen is mightier than the sword. As I said, I will have her blood
But, who says I can’t have a little appetizer? Just a simple prick on the finger, that is all I need… yes, yes, simply delicious! I must have more!
-The ink has taken on a red tinge, as if tainted by some outside liquid-
I must have more! The finger is not enough for me anymore; this is just child’s play. Now, where should I cut to find more?
Ah, of course, I’ve known the answer all along. That dream wasn’t just a memory; it was a telling of the future! The veins and arteries in my wrist will have the sweetest mixture; my sweet, sweet sister was just showing me where to find it! My word, this must be the nectar of god himself! Just so divine! Blood is the answer to all of my prayers!
-Large spots of blood drip on the page-
I must have more… more… more… sister is showing me the way.
July 1, 2009
What a pleasant diary! Such a nice feel to it, the cover the most exquisite shade of red, the pages old and yellowed, just like some journal back in the times of Lewis and Clark!
I simply demanded to know where Susan got it, but all she said was that she had many of the like. She must be rich! Such a book deserves to be put into a display case! She also invited me into her house, where I am now, which is filled with so many oddities! Old guns, shards of plastic grouped with destroyed clocks… she even has a kitchen knife and an exquisite wine glass on one of her cabinets.
She led me to a grand book case and I was amazed at the various books lining its shelves! Some of them looked centuries old, but the newest one looks like a twin of this one, simply in black! I asked her if I could read some of them, but she simply shook her head with a smile.
Where are my manners? My name is Martin Sampson of Eatonville, Washington, and I cannot wait to write the memoirs of my life on these welcoming yellow pages.