"Punk"
by J.L. Michaelsonn
Disclaimer: All things & characters that have to do this the Night World belong to L.J. Smith.
I own Lucius ( pronounced LUCY-us, not LOO-shus), Dimitri, and the Willston twins.
The icy gale whipped flakes of pure white snow past gaily decorated quaint little
homes. Pine trees were set up in large glass picture windows, strung with lights and garlands,
laced with delicate ornaments, topped with angel figurines or stars. The country-style homes
were trimmed with colored or white lights, with electric candles glowing out of every window.
The strip of downtown Gorham, New Hampshire, was also brightly-lit, the shops and restaurants
gradually closing. The tiny area was a staunch little puritan town nestled away in a mountain
valley.
A new eatery called "The Raven's Quote" had recently opened, trying to catch the
Christmas business. But unbeknownst to the amiable citizens of Gorham, an elaborate Black
Iris club had set up shop beneath it.
The stars shome brilliantly in the clear sky, only interrupted by partial clouds that spit
snow ocaisionally down onto the already-blanketed ground. Snowflakes danced by the iron gate
crudely grafitied with a black iris in spray paint.
Behind it, was a bar. Rock music spilled from hidden speakers, and there was an empty
stage whre musicians could belt it out. The lights were unusually low, and the people sitting at the bar
and tables were very quiet. There was no TV blaring sports news, but there were a few billiards
tables, some being occupied. So every minute or so, there was a clack or two.
Lucius sat on a barstool, with the brown case that contained his electric guitar resting
against his leg. He had once been nothing but a mere handsome young man, tall and far-seeing,
but he had definately changed. His hair was spiked, mostly jet-black, with a patch of deep purple
over the left side of his face. He had a small black metal rod through his eyebrow, and rings in his
nostril, lip, and ears. A thick silver chain hung around his throat, and one dangled from a belt loop
in his black pants. He had six tattoos on his arms, shown off by the once-proud blue-gray button-
down shirt with the sleeves torn off. On his right shoulder was a large black rose with blood dripping
from its thorns, a pentagram on his inner bicep, and a band around his forearm. Opposite that, he had
a Virgo symbol on his left shoulder, a fanciful "L", and a big, colorful Chinese dragon. He wore a spiked
bracelet, and his fingernails were black.
He was Lucius Armand, a vampire punk. A rogue who loved little more than rock music
and freedom. He had been in and out of different bands lately, as the frontman or just a backup guitarist.
For some reason, he ended up just chilling at a club in nothen New Hampshire. Bored, he touched
the glass of hot blood he ordered. It had cooled, but he had drank most of it, anyway.
Maybe I should start my own band, he thought wistfully. Sure, it'd be nice.
Lucius slid off his stool and paid the bartender, then slung on his tan leather jacket that had
patches for punk bands on it. Hefting his guitar case, he heded out into the winter storm.
by J.L. Michaelsonn
Disclaimer: All things & characters that have to do this the Night World belong to L.J. Smith.
I own Lucius ( pronounced LUCY-us, not LOO-shus), Dimitri, and the Willston twins.
The icy gale whipped flakes of pure white snow past gaily decorated quaint little
homes. Pine trees were set up in large glass picture windows, strung with lights and garlands,
laced with delicate ornaments, topped with angel figurines or stars. The country-style homes
were trimmed with colored or white lights, with electric candles glowing out of every window.
The strip of downtown Gorham, New Hampshire, was also brightly-lit, the shops and restaurants
gradually closing. The tiny area was a staunch little puritan town nestled away in a mountain
valley.
A new eatery called "The Raven's Quote" had recently opened, trying to catch the
Christmas business. But unbeknownst to the amiable citizens of Gorham, an elaborate Black
Iris club had set up shop beneath it.
The stars shome brilliantly in the clear sky, only interrupted by partial clouds that spit
snow ocaisionally down onto the already-blanketed ground. Snowflakes danced by the iron gate
crudely grafitied with a black iris in spray paint.
Behind it, was a bar. Rock music spilled from hidden speakers, and there was an empty
stage whre musicians could belt it out. The lights were unusually low, and the people sitting at the bar
and tables were very quiet. There was no TV blaring sports news, but there were a few billiards
tables, some being occupied. So every minute or so, there was a clack or two.
Lucius sat on a barstool, with the brown case that contained his electric guitar resting
against his leg. He had once been nothing but a mere handsome young man, tall and far-seeing,
but he had definately changed. His hair was spiked, mostly jet-black, with a patch of deep purple
over the left side of his face. He had a small black metal rod through his eyebrow, and rings in his
nostril, lip, and ears. A thick silver chain hung around his throat, and one dangled from a belt loop
in his black pants. He had six tattoos on his arms, shown off by the once-proud blue-gray button-
down shirt with the sleeves torn off. On his right shoulder was a large black rose with blood dripping
from its thorns, a pentagram on his inner bicep, and a band around his forearm. Opposite that, he had
a Virgo symbol on his left shoulder, a fanciful "L", and a big, colorful Chinese dragon. He wore a spiked
bracelet, and his fingernails were black.
He was Lucius Armand, a vampire punk. A rogue who loved little more than rock music
and freedom. He had been in and out of different bands lately, as the frontman or just a backup guitarist.
For some reason, he ended up just chilling at a club in nothen New Hampshire. Bored, he touched
the glass of hot blood he ordered. It had cooled, but he had drank most of it, anyway.
Maybe I should start my own band, he thought wistfully. Sure, it'd be nice.
Lucius slid off his stool and paid the bartender, then slung on his tan leather jacket that had
patches for punk bands on it. Hefting his guitar case, he heded out into the winter storm.