Vampire's Dilemma

by Jacqueline Lichtenberg

  Sarah felt the tears streaming down her face. She, of all people was being asked to make a decision for this boy, he was asking her, he was begging her. Damn it. She didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t solve his problems. Was he delusional? Was it the truth? How in Heaven’s name could it possibly be? Yet he believed it and this kid was a Marine. They had a code and he lived by it. He was definitely a Marine.

  “Nicholas, who is he killing now?”

  “He’s killing children now, ma’am?”

  “Can you stop him the way things are?”

  “No.” He was crying. They were both crying.

  “Nicholas, if you teach him to kill like a Marine, who will he kill?”

  “He’ll kill my buddies, my brothers. I know he’ll do that.”

  “Can you stop him the way things are?”

  Nicholas took a moment to answer. “No ma’am. No I can’t stop him right now. Nothing I can do could stop him.”

  “Nicholas, as a Marine, would you choose to kill children?”

  “No ma’am. Never.”

  Sarah hated herself for this. But it was so clear to her. She was forever going to hate herself but it was the only way.

  “As a Marine, Nicholas, as a Marine, would you kill your buddies?”

  “No ma’am, a Marine doesn’t kill his buddies.”

  “There’s no way they’re going to believe you didn’t kill your buddy Nicholas, you know that.”

  “I know that ma’am, but I don’t know what to do.”

  “What do Marines do to kill the bad guys, Nicholas?”

  “Marines do whatever they have to ma’am. Marines do what ever they have to do to kill the bad guys.”

  “What is it you want to do Nicholas? What is it you’ve always wanted to do?”

  “Ma’am, the sun is rising. There’s no more time.”

  “Tell me, tell me what you’ve always wanted to do.”

  “I want to be a Marine, ma’am. I want to be a Marine.”

  “Why?”

  “To fight and kill the bad guys, ma’am.”

  “And tell me Nicholas, who is the bad guy?”

  “He is ma’am, he is.”

  Was she damning him to eternal hell, was she offering him his salvation? I don’t know, Sarah screamed to herself. I don’t know.

  “Do what you have to do to kill the bad guy Nicholas. Be a Marine, Nicholas. Be a Marine.”

  About Anne Phyllis Pinzow

  Anne Phyllis Pinzow’s first love was fiction, and though she’s done some professional scriptwriting, she makes most of her living now from journalism.

  Along the way she discovered fan fiction, spent a few years as a fanzine editor, and then found a home among TV fanfic writers online.

  Here’s what she says about the relationship between her fanfic and her professional writing.

  It’s late at night I’m exhausted. I sit back to read some fanfiction just to take my mind off of the latest newspaper article I’ve written to recharge, so to speak, for the next one.

  As I’m reading, something the author wrote or something that happened during the day, or a feeling will spark that light within. “Gee, that’s what (pick a television character) would do,” and off I go.

  Usually it’s just a vignette, cause I really don’t have time for much more these days. Sometimes it has grown into a full-blown story. (I’d like to note here that it usually takes me three hours to write a newspaper article of around 1,500 words but it only takes me around 20 minutes to write 3,000 words of fiction. Go figure.)

  Besides it, for some reason, relaxing me, I find that just the practice of having to come up with the complete story, (sans background, creating characters from scratch, etc., etc.) from my own imagination, does sharpen my newspaper writing skills because I can see the flaws in my copy more clearly in fiction.

  In newspaper writing, the facts are there. The creativity comes into play by drawing the reader from one fact to the next and figuring out a way to pull the reader’s attention to what is truly important, what information must be conveyed.

  The order and presentation of hard facts can also influence what a reader gets from the story.

  In newspaper writing, this should not be done with drama, melodrama, or color. It has to be done simply with a recounting of interviews, information and events. Many times the events have more than enough drama inherent in them but many times the facts are dry.

  I mean, there’s just so many ways anyone can write about how the sewer infrastructure is falling apart because of weak management of the DPW department for the last 40 years and budget cuts and because of that the local municipality is going to be double taxed for the next 20 years and tough if the taxpayers don’t like it cause the alternative is walking around in you know what. (This is true by the way. I couldn’t make that up.)

  What I find fascinating in writing both fiction and non-fiction is the writer’s tendency to get up on a soapbox and spout an ideology. That can be deadly, professionally speaking. It’s not too healthy in fanfiction either.

  For ideology there’s the editorial style of writing, which I’ve also done from time to time, which takes more creativity but again, must be based solely on solid facts. Yet editorials must flow and because they are just a large opinion, there must be logic to them or the whole argument falls apart. This again is better learned through fiction than non-fiction.

  As to how my non-fiction writing helps my fiction writing, that has to do with plain old grammar, punctuation and spelling. (ach spelling!) Thank G-d my copyeditors keep me honest.

  I find that after a long stint of non-fiction writing, when I get back to doing some fiction, my writing style has always strengthened, my sentences flow more strongly and my techniques are sharpened.

  There’s another thing too. As a newspaper reporter, I have to substantiate everything. While it’s impossible to check every single fact for every single article, there are instances where things must be checked thoroughly.

  Take this to the realm of fiction writing. Sure, it’s all in the writer’s imagination, however, because I must constantly check the facts in my non-fiction, I can more easily see the holes in the logic of my fiction.

  If there’s a hole, it’s there for a purpose. Of course, this ability drives me crazy when I’m watching a movie or television show.

  If anyone wants me to tell them why one of the greatest movies of all time “Casablanca,” actually makes no sense what so ever, feel free to contact me.

  Then again, why ruin possibly the most angst ridden love story of all time with logic. Oh, sorry, that was “Romeo and Juliet,” but then, I can ruin that one too. But by what light would anyone really want me to?

  I write fanfiction under a pseudonym and have won “Kerth Awards” and have been included in the “Writer’s Showcase” in “Lois & Clark: The New Adventures of Superman” fanfcition.

  I’ve also won a “J-Spot” award for “naughty fanfiction” in the JAG universe and have had stories included in Legacies which is considered a “best of fanfiction,” website for JAG stories.

  My latest favorite television show and fanfiction universe is White Collar where I’ve also received some acclaim, not only as a writer but as a critic.

  Also, I’ve done some professionally submitted Quantum Leap and Lois and Clark scripts which went into turn-around (pro talk for rejected,) which my agent has been pushing me to publish as fan work.

  All told, including some Star Trek and Sime~Gen (just for fun) stories I’ve written about 50 stories.

  THE FACE ON THE COIN, by Robyn Hugo McIntyre

  Germany. August 1956

  It had to be this time.

  If it didn’t happen this time, he might have to make a run for it. He’d made the plans, bribed the right people. But how he hoped he wouldn’t need any of it.

  He could hear his heart in his ears, banging away like some old jalopy. If he didn’t get it under control, he’d waste this chance; maybe the last chance, if the A
rmy was on to him.

  He shook himself like a dog, took deep and slow breaths. The curtains were drawn against the light, the German countryside was quiet. Somewhere a small plane droned by, probably on its way to occupied Berlin. He settled himself in a chair. Birds sang and he could just smell the fallen fruit from the abandoned orchard. He could feel his pulse slowing and he concentrated on feeling as though he was floating in a pool on holiday again in Italy.

  He yanked at the knot in his tie and undid his collar button, reaching into his shirt to pull out the coin on its leather cord. It felt warmer than his body heat could make it and he squeezed it. It grew even warmer until it threatened to burn him, but he knew it wouldn’t leave any mark. He tightened his fist and poured a wordless plea into what he held.

  And she was there.

  The color of her peplos was a blue brighter than ever before. Her jewelry shone and he could clearly see her face—the same face on the coin. She was beautiful, but that aspect of her was just a fact he noted. It was what she could do for him that counted. What she could do for him after what he had done for her. How he had—to, what—he had fed her.

  Impatiently, he watched as she turned slightly away and opened her arms. The air near her hands became diffused as though seen through antique glass, making what was appearing seem more dreamlike than real. But he knew it was real. It had to be.

  Wider and higher the distortion spread. Greens in different shades became apparent, with brighter splashes of color here and there. It was an impressionist’s view of a garden that gained more definition with every passing second. There was a gleam of silver, streaks of gold and copper that began to resolve themselves into the aspects of an armored man. No, more than one. There were at least two and behind them a taller shape in pale yellow. Several other shapes shifted and gathered nearby.

  He stood, but then had to half-sit again; his trembling legs would not support him. As he sat there, gripping his knees in an effort to steady them, he heard a knocking come from the front door of his cottage. No one ever came here anymore, which meant…

  He willed himself upward; the knocking was louder, more rapid. He could hear someone calling to him. His time was almost up.

  Then, the image in front of him suddenly sharpened into focus. Two—knights—in light armor stood in front of a taller man whose pale blonde hair hung short and somewhat wild around his long face. His green tunic was heavily embroidered in a dark yellow and there was a circlet of gold on his brow. No doubt a king or prince. Around him were women and men, all richly attired. And there were others, not so human. They looked back at him from faces of beasts or bone and he could feel their curiosity and mild anger.

  The knockings at the front door had become poundings—soon they would turn to thuds as those outside sought to force the door. No doubt they were already moving around to the back to seek another entrance.

  It had to be now.

  He forced himself to stand and shuffle up to the image, putting out his hand to reach in. The king pushed aside the knights and lifted his right hand as if reaching back. Joy nearly took him to the floor.

  Before he could register it, the king had turned away and the image had disappeared.

  In a daze, he heard the sound of breaking glass—the door to the back garden forcefully opened.

  He turned to the woman, who was still facing where the image—the portal—had been. Her eyes were squeezed shut and her mouth trembled then opened wide and he could feel, though not hear, her scream. Then she dissolved.

  “Colonel Wright! Colonel Wright! Are you in here? Where are you?” Men in U.S. Army uniforms came into the room from both sides as the front door finally gave way.

  Wright was holding the coin up to his lips, where it became wet from the tears that were streaming from his eyes. As one of the men in uniform reached out to him, Wright flinched and a noise that was half cry, half moan tore out of him.

  “You can’t have it!” He shielded the coin from them. “I found it! It’s mine!” His voice broke, slid into a whisper.

  “The gateway is mine.”

  Then he slid, unconscious, to the floor.

  Los Angeles. September 1956

  I was watching an episode of Matinee Theatre on my new color television and being a little peeved. I hadn’t had my RCA Whitby deluxe console television with panoramic sound very long and there weren’t a lot of programs in color, so I hadn’t had a lot of opportunities to use what I’d learned about tuning from the manual. I wasn’t going to get it from this play, either.

  It had Winston Churchill’s daughter in it. Her role was a woman who inherited a house and a ghost from the Revolution and the ghost is stuck there because he didn’t deliver some message to George Washington.

  There was a knock at the door, but before I could pop down the stairs, I heard a key in the lock. I disappeared just in case, although it was probably Keiko. I was wrong; it was Laslo.

  The man some called the Fortune Teller announced himself before he came up, but I had already guessed by the sound of his big feet on the treads, and I was visible once more.

  “Something new has been added,” he said. His slight accent, which he had told me was from Dalmatia on the coast of Yugoslavia gave the consonants a little sharper sound and made the vowels a little wider.

  “Like it?” I asked.

  Laslo was leaning on the balustrade, looking over at the television. He’d taken his hat off and I could see his hairline, which might have been a little higher than the last time I had seen him. A glare from the television on his black rimmed glasses hid his eyes, but there was a small smile on his face, echoed in the lift of his bushy eyebrows.

  “Very nice. Good sound.”

  “It’s panoramic. It’s a color television.”

  “Why isn’t the show in color, then?”

  “The color has to come from the station. This program isn’t in color.”

  “Ah.”

  We were both quiet for a while, admiring the picture.

  “Brownie,” Laslo said. “There’s a ghost on that program.”

  “I know. It’s…uh…” Damn, what was that word everyone was using? “…cool, right?”

  While Laslo put his coat and hat away, I explained the play to him. He nodded as he sat down and we admired the crispness of the commercial interruption.

  “So, do you think this ghost will get the girl?” He asked, once the play resumed.

  “No,” I told him. “She has a fiancé, who’s a drip—things aren’t likely to go his way. But there’s a reporter and my money is on him. These days it’s nervy to put on a play where the ghost is the best looking guy available, but I don’t see where the network would be brave enough to let him get the girl, do you? I’m figuring Miss Churchill will be got by the reporter and the ghost will end up going to heaven, as the ghost of any respectable person should.”

  “At least according to the Clean Humanity movement,” Laslo said.

  I shrugged. “As I would probably have said before I became a ghost.” I grinned at him. “Being dead gives you a different view of things.”

  “In more ways than one, I would imagine. Certainly some gain an extremely different view after death.” Laslo looked over to a spot in the office where some floorboards had had to be replaced because of the blood staining them. So much blood.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I won’t cry if I never come close to another werewolf or curse monger again in my…existence.” If a ghost could get gooseflesh, I probably had it right then.

  We were both quiet a moment, then Laslo gestured at the television. “How did you talk Keiko into it?”

  “Didn’t.” And if there was a little bit of surprise in my voice, I let it stay there. “She just came up one day and said there had been some kind of dividend from the investments and asked me if there was anything I wanted. It was expensive as all get out, but she didn’t kick about it at all. She took me down to Barker Brothers, we picked it out, and it was delivered a week ago. Came with
a manual, an NBC lighter with a color peacock on it, and a coffee cup.”

  “You don’t get to go out a lot.” He gestured at the long silver chain I had on. The one with the Aladdin’s Lamp charm I was attached to. As in, where it went, I went. “Perhaps she thought it would be pleasant for you to be able to entertain yourself.”

  “Any amount that I’m able to go out is a lot better than the seventeen years I spent stuck in this office with only newspapers and the radio.” I got up and went into the kitchenette to put on water for coffee for my guest. “But it wouldn’t shock me if that was Keiko’s thinking.”

  “Sounds as though you are getting along.”

  I came back and turned off the television—the episode was over, anyway—and dropped the charm necklace on my desk.

  “What brings you out this way?”

  “It’s not as though your office and Keiko’s gallery are so far from the Mission.”

  I leaned against the wall and looked at him. “Keiko once told me that ‘the Fortune Teller seldom does anything that doesn’t have at least two objectives.’ So visiting a friend might be one. What’s the other?”

  He broke out a big smile then, and laughed. “She is getting to know me too well. So—I am going out of town for a bit so I thought to stop by and see you before I go. Another objective is to ask you how your partnership with Keiko is working.”

  I thought that one over for a minute.

  “You’ve had our help on a couple of things since the summer, so you know we can work together. Maybe you’ve got something bigger on your mind?”

  “Very close. The two of you did very well.”

  “We weren’t exactly a team.”

  “No, but you looked out for one another during that time and neither of you lost your heads.”