The Ultimate Vampire Resource and Directory

Fallen

Ron meadows woke to a warm morning, the sun shining on his face. As usual, he woke to the sound of a plane overhead, heading to the the airport over the river.

His right hip seemed to hurt and felt bruised, so he eased the duvet down to check it out, almost surprised to find that he was alright. There was no bruise.

Ron looked across his room to the far wall and his poster of Farrah Fawcett Majors in a scant bathing suit, taken from that crass show 'Charlie's Angels'.

“Good morning,” he muttered to her.

He was aware of something, something at the back of his mind.

Then with a sensation of de ja vu he recalled falling just a few hours ago, that had led to the dark bruise on his hip, that wasn't. He also remembered a voice. Yet that was it.

Again Ron looked to the clock; it was hours till he had to get ready for college, so he closed his eyes and tried to return to sleep for an hour or so, having set his alarm for two hours hence.

Sleep did not come, unfortunately.

Ron's sole focus was on the young woman who obsessed his dreams, almost every night.

Suddenly he was awake, sitting and sweating.

Ron threw his bedding aside, sat up properly and swung his legs round, placing his bare feet on the carpet.

He checked his new digital watch, it's red numbers telling him he had an hour to go before being in Mister Whitmore's class.

'Bike, or bus?'he mused as he finished dressing, already aware he had left it too late for the third option, walking.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Ron tied the laces to his Doc Martens and scowled.

Much as his heart would flutter, if he saw her. The idea of him seeing her with the new model would decimate him.

Yet, he needed to go in, as his grades were slipping and 'something had to be done about that', he mused with a frown.

Reaching to the stereo, he pressed play and Ziggy Stardust filled his small room.

'Granted,' he mused, 'I like his newer stuff... but, Ziggy was something special.'

Ron opened the main window, sighing as he continued to ruminate on the presence of this man who seemed to touch him, with his words and evocative style.

He looked at his watch, again.

'Plenty of time,' he considered as he took out his tin of makings and removed one of three pre-rolled smokes.

Standing by the partially open window, Ron lit his illicit rollie...

He inhaled deeply on the sweet acrid smoke.

'Queen Bitch'' was playng and needless to say he thought of her; so he thought on the style itself and found himself thinking, for diversion, 'there's elements here of Iggy Pop and leonard Cohen.'

He liked both artists, as well.

Ron placed his smoke down on a battered tin ashtray, acquired from a pub in Abersoch, three years prior. His first 'adult' holiday, with his parents.

He sighed long and hard, feeling frustrated.

Ron didn't want to go to college if he would see her with him. Yet, he needed to go.

“Really,” he finally decided, “it's a no-brainer, I've got to go in.”

He was right, he had to. His current grade average saw him moving to the classes lower percentile.

Again, he sighed.

Ron picked up his roll and drew upon it deeply, as he considered what to do next.

Finally, he put out the smoke, closed the window and located his bike helmet.

Not many used them, but he did.
“I'm off out Mum!” He called, listening to the silence that followed before he closed the door after himself.

He had cycled fast and hard, arriving early for his classes and having avoiding those he had chosen to, albeit warily; to the amusement of several of his classmates.

He had ducked and dived, to avoid them, knowing full well that he'd been giggled at more than once.

So it was, come 4:50 p.m. Ron had been clock-watching, aware that each clock hand moved slowly.

Finally it was 5:00 p.m. and within a few minutes he was on his bike and heading home.

Even with heavy traffic on the A41 Ron made it home within his current deadline of seventeen minutes, just.

He grimaced momentarily, recalling the motorists face, at the last set of lights at red.
His face had been just as red.

With a slight grin he recalled the recent televison adverts, recarding road safey: 'Never be a Weaverbird.' The narrarator would intone, as if it were alway's a bad thing.

Ron had got home within seventeen minutes, with only a 'little' weaving amongst the heavy traffic.

Entering with his bike which he placed across from the coat-rack, he closed the front door and called out, “I'm home,” as if the noise he made on entrance had not been enough of

“What's for tea Mum?” Ron called out, suddenly realizing he'd not eaten through the day, once again.

From the steaming kitchen down the long hall, he heard his mother call back.

“crispy mince pancakes, pea's and mash,” then moments later add, “do you want artic roll for you rudding?”

He grinned and answered, “Yes please” in case she changed her mind; not that it would happen, but he often had it in mind, that plans would change beneath his feet.

It was to his detriment and Ron knew it. After all he mused, as he made his way to the backroom, 'I'm the one who can't let go.'

He opened the door and looked across the room to his Apricot Xen and to it's side, the accompanying dot matrix printer.

He had typed in deltree *.* once, as he had been told it should kill the harddrive stone dead. As it had transpired, his old green screen had a 'wincester drive', that sat on his motherboard, somewhere.

It had laughed at him and booted up fine, the next time he had gone to do so.

So he looked at the pc, trying to decide whether to see to his homework 'now', or wait
until after 'The Man From Atlantis.'

'Or, is that on Saturday?' He mused, opening his bag and digging out his class folders and the notes relating to his two afternoon classes, mostly spent hiding in whichever corner was convenient, as he sought to “hide from them”, Ron had tried to quietly exlain to a few of his.

He could not. His classmates could see how childish his actions became at breaktime in the cafeteria, when Ron had been noticed skulking near the drinks machine.

'Skulking' had been the descriptive word used by an English student acquaintance of his, who had pointed out his discomforture to several on her table.

And so the laughs went on, all at his expense and embarrasment, of course.

Ron sighed at the recollection, then sat before his pc, aware that at least a few hours were needed to be spent before the green screen machine, before he could get ahead of his course-work, before bedtime.

And boy, did he feel tired.

“It's on the table!” Ron heard his mother call, so his immedidiate decision was made for him: food was his priority, as a rumbling tummy reminded him.

“Hands washed?” She had asked, busying herself from stove to sink, prior to setting his plate down on the table.

“Yes Mum,” he'd lied easily, then sat down to eat, being careful not to scald his mouth on the contents of the pancake, for a change.

“When are you going to eat?” Ron asked as he ate, with voracious gusto.

“After the news?” She had answered.

He knew what that meant.

She might get to see the end of the six o'clock news, simply because the kitchen had to be clean, before she sat down to relax, albeit 'to watch the news'.

It was alway's the same. And, he wished it was not.

Finally finished, Ron took a round of bread, doubled it over and mopped up the gravy that had come with his pancakes.

“I'll do them dishes Mum, after me puddin,” he had said, surprised that for a change she did as he asked, dried her hands and made her way through to the lounge.

The Artic Roll was as expected, hot and cold and tasty. And eaten, there was the price, he thought with a wry smile, as he switched on the kettle, for the dishes.

Two kettles later and the dishes in soak, Ron made his Mother a cup of tea, not at all surprised to find her with her feet up, ankles crossed, eyes closed and snoring softly.

He set the cup to one side and kissed her on the forehead.

“Thank you,” he murmured, as he made his way out of the room and headed to his p.c.


'Homework, or poetry?' He asked of himself,
knowing full that television wasn't an option, not in the mood he was in.


He had too much on his mind, just too much.
Furthermore, he was aware that his obsession was not doing him any good whatsoever.

His classmates had noticed, as had his friends.
Ron was ashamed about that.. He had no-one to talk to anymore, having droned on and on, far to much for his close friends.

He turned on his computer and sat before it, deciding to do his homework, as it needed to be done.

And, so the evening had passed, only interrupted by his need for caffeine.

A few hours later, he heard his mother call out, “Honey, I'm going to bed. Now don't stay up too long... alright?”

“Sure Mum,” he answered through the door, “I'm just finishing off this chapter.”

The words on his pages of notes were starting to walk off the page: he was tired and knew it.

“Time for bed,” Ron muttered, as he stood and turned off his pc.

Turning his bedroom light on he looked to his bed and sighed. Lassitude had set in and he did not even feel like getting undressed.

He sat and removed his boots, then stood again briefly, to turn off the light. Then Ron turned and made his way back to his bed, stubbing his right hand big-toe on the way.

“Damn,” he excplained, then lay back and closed his eyes, with his arms crossed behind his head.

His toes throbbed, but tiredness overcame him quickly enough.

The curtains open the everyday sounds of the night distracted him, as he sought darkness and peace.

There's the sound of a little girl squealing at her Mother. He hears a small dog yapping, a corgi or a sausage dog perhaps.

He hears people chatting and, suddenly realizes their conversation takes an intimate level.


Still seeking sleep, Ron allows his mind to drift, as he had intended.




Deep sleep found him eventually and Ron turned once, pulling the quilt overhimself, as he temporarily found the peace, he sought.

Then abruptly, he fell upward, through the ceiling and roof. Ron turned, to look down to his home, as he drifted with the wind.

Excitment had risen within him, as he slowly flew around his small town, during the wee dark hours.

Ron manoevred his way above the treestops, looking down at the formerly empty streeets.

Surprise filled him, as he realised what he was looking at, there they both were, holding hands and looking happy.

Abrupty realization hit Ron and finally he saw the truth of his obsession.

And, he fell earthward.

Then he woke and sat upright, puzzled. Ron looked around himself, frantic about the memory that he could not recalll.


He lay back down, crossed his ankles right over left, his arm crossed over his chest

Tired as he was, it took him less than ten minutes to return to the arms of Morpheus.

Ron meadows woke to a warm morning, the sun shining on his face. As usual, he woke to the sound of a plane overhead, heading to the the airport over the river.

His right hip seemed to hurt and felt bruised, so he eased the quilt down to check it out, almost surprised to find that he was alright. There was no bruise.