Jane Austin Talkington, age 19, deceased.

Jane Talkington, daughter of Eloise and Herman Talkington was found dead at Thurgood Park saturday morning by a group of joggers. Apparently the victim of foul play, the police are investigating the matter. Anyone who saw or spoke with Jane on Friday the 18th of December should contact the Sizzleville police department.


I was a nobody. My parents weren't wealthy, so instead of that upscale Fifth avenue look, I had to rock the Wal-Mart chic. Which meant I was just one of an army of nobodies. The rich girls played with looking Bohemian, with tattered jeans and distressed scarfs. There is just something about a $300 pair of denim jeans that are prefrayed and distressed that a $2 pair of Goodwill jeans just can't match. And the Goodwill smells like poverty anyhow. I had glasses, braces, bad skin and a minor body issue thing. My older brother Pierce drove us back and forth to school in the Uncool mobile, my moms old Astro minivan. I wasn't pretty, I wasn't popular, I didn't have a boyfriend, but I did have a mouth breathing stalker who followed my around the school and always sat behind me when he could. He was always smelling my hair. Creep.

I tried to be the angry rebel girl but that didn't work.

I tried to be the girly girl with the skirt and and the leggings, but that really didn't work.

I even tried to be the moody goth girl. I got the moody part down, but I couldn't get the pasty faced thing or the music down.

Normally this is where I should say something like I met a super hot guy who liked me for no apparent reason, and that he invited me to his house. He revealed to me his dark inner secret, his tormented soul for being a vampire. It was pretty much nothing like that. I did meet him for a few moments, walking home from my friend DJ's house. I knew he was trouble, and I made a huge mistake. I ran. He chased me for three blocks, and eventually he flushed me out into the park not far from my house. I screamed, I cried, I begged.

He attacked me. I should make some sort of witty comment about loosing my virginity to a rapist or something like that. But there was nothing like that in my mind. He was a predator, the real kind of predator, and I was the deer he had caught. I struggled, I hit him, and he tore my throat out. I died staring up into the branches of a tree I had climbed with my brother when we were both young enough to like each other and do things like climbing trees. As everything went dark, I felt sorry that my parents would have to find me like this, murdered like a deer in the park. My brother wouldn't get to make fun of me, and I wouldn't get to make fun of his fat girlfriend. I didn't even get to use my excuse as for why I couldn't go to prom. Fuck.

Funeral services will be held Tuesday at the Kondrake Funeral Home.

In police news, the homicide case for Jane Talkington has been suspended pending a lack of leads and information. Police now suspect that Miss Talkington was the possibly the victim of an animal attack, and locals are advised to contact animal control if they see a large dog acting suspiciously. Forest service workers are surveying the national park bear population looking for any missing animals that might be wandering around town.

I died. There wasn't a light, I didn't meet Jesus or Grandma Belle. I was in a box, satin lined. I freaked out pretty badly.

I was rescued, the casket was opened. I hadn't been buried yet. The mortician helped me out of the coffin, and he unsewed my eyelids so I could open my eyes. He was a vampire too, dead like me. I stayed with him for a week, and he taught me what I was, what I could do and what I should avoid at all costs. I expected to be chained to darkness, a creature of the night damned to feed on only blood and live in a coffin. I can go out in the daylight, it causes me no discomfort. But it does make it fairly obvious that I'm not human. My skin is still a dead color, my blood doesnt circulate so I'm cold, ashen and pale. But my eyes see better than they ever have, and my teeth are beautiful and straight. When I feed, my skin is flush and my hair is so luxurious I just want to laugh. He advised me that the proper thing to do was to feed on cold blood, taking from the veins of the dead, or from blood banks. He said most knew about us, and would give what they didn't need, or what they couldn't use.

But that wasn't me. The old me might have brown bagged it, because it was the better more sensible thing to do. But the new me, the cold dead me, didn't care any more. I was free. I had no carbon guilt. I don't breath in or out, so I'm cleaner than anyone will ever be. I don't eat food, so there is no vegan vegetarian industrialized food guilt or carbon attached to me. I can outrun a deer, I jump over houses, and I can't fly yet but I'm learning. Right now I can float pretty well. I don't need a car. I don't need a coffin, or dirt.

I need just one precious little thing. Blood.

Writer's Notes:

The vampire genre has many common themes and tropes. One trope that I am quite fond of is the idea of the Mouse becoming the Lion. Their mortal life lived in a shadow of guilt, self doubt, or some other percieved inferiority is drastically changed when they are slain and rise as a vampire. The fetters of mortality are shed, and the once nearly helpless human rises as a mighty vampire predator. While other more common vampires bemoan their lost humanity and angst over it, the newly born lion revels in the death of their timidity and inferiority. While some vampires of this streak become monsters and have to be put down to protect the secrets of the undead, those that keep their sanity and self control can become bold and potent vampires unafraid of their power, or their thirst for blood.

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