This composition was originally written well over a year ago, based on a storyboard roleplaying of two characters portrayed by me and a dear friend who so inspired me as I inspired him. Taking from our roleplaying script, I was compelled to write it in a story format. After several months of adding and subtracting and re-editing, it has come to this final piece...I hope. Dilectus Meus Mi et Ego Illi {I Am My Beloved's and My Beloved Is Mine} by L. A. Jones The day passed into night with a treacherous slowness. Jean-Luc Baptiste had been sitting in his library when the news had come. His manservant, Rehan, had knocked, entered and then delivered the folded cream-colored parchment. He had flipped the notice open, a sans souciant expression on his face, and read. Two words. She comes. His expression changed, several times, in seconds as he considered and his mind worked over the simple words, their meaning, their myriad implications. Whatever their implications, whatever she brought with her, she was returning. He had risen and stalked about the library, his mind deliberate and analytic as he pondered. The library constricted him, he moved through the manor then, walking, pacing, as was his habit when his mind rushed headlong. He recalled the conversations in the cafes of Munich, Heidelberg, and Vienna, the interviews with philosophers of their day. Hegel railed against Kant, Marx and Keirkegaard against Hegel, and then dear Nietzche and the God is Dead notion. As each expostulated against the former, he had thought of the singular experience of having spoken to them all in the span of one hundred-seventy-five years. He pondered the irony that many of them had never met, one dead before he other lived, but they all claimed understandingan understanding of sorts. He had heard them all, as he sipped coffee, wine, and spiritsblood. What had drawn his mind back was the feeling he had of restriction in those tempestuous conversations. He had been moved to walk, to pace, as he thought and argued, at first with himself, and then with those great thinkers. He has remained seated, the wild intellect shackled by immobility. Now, he smirked as he nearly watched himself trod the board, indeed an actor in the oldest of plays, playing the first frenetic act, unseen, as he ruminated. As the movement slowed within him, his thoughts more crystalline, and placid, he walked to the window and looked into the streets. "I will feed, and then I will go where she is to light. I shall see her." His lips whispered, eliciting again, "I shall see her." It would have been more to his nature to have her wait, but it seemed pressing matters were afoot. Time may be of value. He was anxious, though his demeanor would not say it, in his being he felt the restlessness. He called for his coat, stick and hat, and then his Rolls to be brought around front. Rehan drove Jean-Luc to Bourbon Street and there he disembarked on foot. An unusual looking man, Baptiste, though not alarming, he habitually dressed in attire that was cut from a style fifty years earlier. His bearing seemed to pull off the statement quite well. He was tall and walked quite upright, though not rigidly so. As was his custom, he wore a hat and carried a cane. Perhaps these idiosyncrasies made him stand out in the crowd, but they had never brought him a problem. He walked casually along the banquettes as people thinned. He hunted slowly, meticulously, always with motive. Tonight, however, his heart was not in it. He felt driven to feed, not by the pleasure of it, but by need alone. Sensuality would lose out to utilitarianism, but such are the losses in a long life. He had thought that a slow, patient stalk and then the sensual consumption of succulent fruit would fill the hours until But his mind raced too quickly to surround such a biding. He sought, stalked and ate quickly. As he recovered his place in the flow of pedestrian traffic on the banquette once again, he amused himself with the notion of fast food and drive through for Kindred. He disappeared into the crowd. As he approached his vehicle, he waved Rehan back to his seat, opened the door and settled into the rear seat. "Home, your grace?" "No, Rehan. To the Laveau estate if you will." He closed the door and gave a flourish of his fingers for the driver to drive on. Rehan smiled, unseen, and pulled from the curb. On the long ride into the outskirts of the city, the counts mind picked up the racers pace. He speculated and mused and pondered the recent events. But despite this trajectory, one image was the anchor to the circling, spinning boat of his mind. Concentrically, he spiraled back to one image of exquisite and pristine beauty. His beautyhis jewel. His remembrances of the dark-eyed Creole child with the lilting accent of the Creole patois, the growing girl, and his patience as womanhood approached, the fruition of beauty emerging. His eyes closed and a smile formed on his lips. The image, a cool soothing hand on the fevered thoughts spinning ceaselessly and formulating once again in his mind. The Rolls Royce eased to a halt and Rehan bound gracefully out. He opened the door with an inclination of his head as Jean-Luc exited. "You may return home, Rehan." As the Rolls drove away, Jean-Luc traversed the dew damp lawns, through the gardens, and to the rear of the main house. It was a route so frequently traveled that he could have closed his eyes, having made the trip even in his dreams. He entered, as he always had, and went, as he always did, to her room upstairs. He had spent many nights, sitting at her desk, surrounded by her belongings and her beings, in her absence. Her long absence. He had passed many a sleepless day laid prone on her bed, still smelling her skin and hair. He had passed deep dreams of Marseilles, Paris, the French Quarter of New Orleans,the shore of Lake Pontchartrain and her passion in each of those places. This Childe which had entranced him. This Childe, his pride and love...his Isabella-Marie. He passed the remainder of the night, sitting in the moonlight at the cold hearthside, reading a volume of poetry by Lord Byron, a favorite poet of Isabella-Marie. He read the familiar words, again and then over. A smile came and then faded as to anxiety as the recent news captured him, his thoughts again. He paused, his last of innumerable readings, as a finger slipped between the pages ~ she walks in beauty like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies and all thats best in dark and light meet in her aspect, and her eyes thus mellowed to that tender night which heaven to gaudy day denies ~ Seconds passed, slowly dying. At long last, he heard the drone of a far-away vehicle, and he knew it to be hers. His heart quickened, he calmed himself. The car approached, and then the crunching halt on the circular drive outside. The car door opening and closing, and muffled voices below, though clear to himand now her song of voice The smell of leather gloves slipping smoothly off and tossed aside on the etagere, the reverbrating sounds of the heels of her shoes echoed throughout the hall as she made her way into the kitchen. And then the scent of the bottle of Merlot being poured into a glass. After a few sips from the glass she ambled off into the parlor, discarding of her cashmere coat onto the arm of the settee. The redolence of her - tempered and full-bodied and unbearably stirring - was having an imminent yet familiar repercussion on his senses. His hunger enlivened by the unpretentious conveyance of her presence. He hastened down the stairs, silently and through the back hall and stood just outside the room as he thought her thoughts as she was lost in her reveries. He entered the room. As anticipation won over, he announced his presence. So wrapped was she in memories that her alertness was blunted in the safe surroundings. "Hello, ma cher." Isabella-Marie spun about, the conjuration of her reveries broke and she was jarred back into the consciousness of now; her mouth gaped, aware of his approach. "Jean-Luc?" "Welcome home, my Childe" Encompassing her in his arms, his mouth took fierce possession of hers. Drawing slightly from her lips he murmured, "I missed you, ma cher." Again the long awaited kiss. Finis

I like its pace, frantic, desperate, fast. Perhaps a bit too fast, at times. It rushes along certain aspects I would like to see developed (the whole philosophers scene, for example). But in general, really good... I enjoyed it. The contempt Jean-Luc has for mortality is boiling at the skin of the character, almost bursting from him. It was most evident at the beginning. That was particularly refreshing to read, as it is not easy to convey. The transformation of the character's psyche is interesting as well: From a cool, world-wise creature to a love-hungry and ravenous lich. All without losing the finesse. That's probably my favorite point of the whole thing. Sometimes, the prose seems to be overloaded, IMHO. It is definitely part of the style, but in certain cases there is an overdose of similes, a flood of adjectives, cascading, falling, filling, bearing, coming down, bubbling up, ... (well, you get the poing. Pardon the pun). It can overload the reader at times, especially so because the text ios so quick. all in all, a very well rendered tale. I really liked it. It left me, however, with a slight pang of the unfinished. What is this man's tale?

Thank you for your input, Ianfe. I really do appreciate it. As I read over it, I see what you are saying. Again, thank you so much.

I apologize I didn't get to this sooner. I had a lot of catching up to do after my vacation.

The overall flow of the story is quite good. You give the readers a feel for Jean Luc early on.

There is a problem with the tense shifts, though. You wander from pluperfect: had been sitting, had knocked, etc. to the usual past tense: pondered, smirked, etc. At one or two points you even slipped into the present tense. My suggestion would be to keep almost all of it in the simple past tense and only use the pluperfect when he thinks about things far before his current situation, such as when he ponders the philosophers. Then it makes sense because he's talking about things he commonly did in the past.

I'd also suggest tightening up the story by trimming words here and there. Instead of His bearing seemed to pull off the statement quite well. why not just His bearing, though, allowed it. or something similar? He felt driven to feed, not by the pleasure of it, but by need alone might work better as He felt driven to feed, not by pleasure, but by need.

You mix sentence lengths well while keeping the pacing consistant, something which isn't that easy to accomplish. I think a little more description of his surroundings would help define things better so we get drawn deeper into the story and better know Jean Luc.

Hope this helps!

Thanks for sharing,

Cres

~smacks forehead~ I see what you are saying, and yes I do have a tendency to wander (a bit) with past and present tense. I truly do appreciate your input, and very much so your critique is helpful. Thank you again! ~smiles~ Lourdes aka Muna