“At the age of fifteen I experienced the weight of blood falling upon my hands, for the very first time. Looking back I still see the horrified expression of the young lamplighter as he cried out without a sound as vividly as the words on the pages of this book. We were alone on that cobble stone street, just the two of us under the amber and violet sky that summer evening. Salivating with rabid hunger I pounced upon him, pinning him against a wall and taking that single, fatal bite. By the time my head had cleared I was a child again, standing over a bloody corpse with his pearly red fluid stained upon my virgin lips. It dripped from my chin to my breast and to all who would look upon me I was a murderer…”

“Hold up.”

Lucas looks up from his stool in surprise. I can feel his pale grey eyes swerving over my expression as I re-read what he had dictated thus far on the glowing white computer screen. Finally he speaks, his sweet voice laced with dread. “What? Stephanie?”

Shaking my head, I turn to my albino friend, whom I’ve known now for six years going. We met during the last of my lonely years attending middle school at a hell hole appropriately named ‘Black Mountain’. He wandered into the dark forest of my imagination one chilly January morning during math class, my most hated foe, whom I shall do battle against until the day I die. Mark my words, Darth Algebra, you will perish. “I don’t like this,” I explain with a heavy sigh. “Your tone is dry, and you’re practically demonizing yourself.”

I can hear the legs of his stool creak as he leans forward in his bright Hawaiian t-shirt and scruffy blue jeans; glaric to the fashion sense of most fictional vampires who spend their evenings drenched in shades of black and red. Lucas is… different.

In the passage we’re working on Lucas is supposed to be explaining his first kill to the audience, an event which transpired in 1791. When he appears to me now he is 21 years old, physically, though his actual age stands around 230. Although he’s only half-vampire I was generous enough to give him the gift of eternal life when we met. He never thanks me for it. “Well, I wouldn’t want to sound too pathetic. It was a very serious moment, you know. And I’m not demonizing myself; I’m merely explaining to the audience that I had no control over my actions.”

I point to a word on the screen and impishly smirk, “Guys don’t have breasts.”

Lucas just about rolls onto the floor and dies. “Breast bone. I can’t say ‘chest’, it doesn’t sound right. Have you taken your pills today?”

“Yes, I just wanted to jerk you around a little.” I hold down the backspace key and Lucas’s hideous paragraph retreats into exile. “Let’s start over. You’ll get it right this time.”

“Six years. Six years.” I can tell he’s going somewhere with this. I lean forward and watch, trying to hide my amusement. Lucas hates me because I’m immature. “That’s how long I’ve known you. That’s how long you’ve been writing my story. Hell, is it even my story anymore? My eye color alone has changed four times since I met you – four times! You’re driving me insane, and don’t you start laughing!”

“I’m sorry,” I stutter.

“Can we please get on with this? Please, before you really piss me off.” Poor Lucas; he was unlucky to become my muse. I think he’s going to give me a really mean look any second now and storm off like he always does. Even though he’s remained my favorite muse all his life he is unfaltering in his belief that I will never get anything accomplished.

“Okay, for real this time. Why don’t we try starting off with something a little more… cheery!”

Lucas gives me a look like a puppy hiding its muzzle between his oversized paws, hoping that I’ll throw him a bone. He always does this. I love the expressiveness of his eye brows, definitely doggish, even though you can hardly see them most of the time. Being albino has that disadvantage. In a sour voice, he says, “Like what?”

Before I can come up with something the jester of my muses waltzes in from behind and shocks me by dropping his buttocks upon my computer table, in the process swiping my mismatched collection of CDs onto the floor. I shriek and leap from my seat, gaping at my insane pure blood with his twinkling blue eyes and clownish grin. He is posed on my table with his legs tightly crossed, acting quite the girl as usual, and eyeing me with a slick, arrogant grin. “Milo! What the Hell has gotten into you!? You just knocked my CDs all over the floor!” I drop to my knees, collecting my precious babies from the grimy carpet.

He arches his spine in a curious manner, leaning over his knees to watch me as though I’m an exhibit at the San Diego Zoo. Supposedly 632 years old, Milo seems to have an odd case of vampire A.D.D., at times giving him the maturity of the 4th graders on South Park. Oh, he’s brilliant in some respects, but for the most part he’s a jerk. Lucas tells me he shudders at night because he lives under the same roof as Milo, which isn’t surprising, because aside from being a Yankee son of a bitch Lucas is also a homophobe. Being the British fag that Milo is he just loves to give my favorite muse a hard time.

Call it sibling rivalry.

Cradling my CDs with loving care, I rise to meet Milo’s inquisitive glare as he leans back with one arm eased over my computer monitor. “What?” I scowl.

“I was feeling lonely,” Milo taunts, pausing to brush a strand of silver hair from his face. His true hair color is composed of a chocolately brown; it’s so dark I sometimes mistake it for black. He gave himself those highlights when we first met (ironically, it was also in math class, except that Milo came to me quite intentionally during my Junior year) and to this day remains my most difficult muse to control.

Continuing, Milo says; “You’ve been ignoring me for weeks, love. I merely meant to grab your attention so that we might do something together. How about a picture, eh? I’ve got a brilliant idea in mind, would you like to hear?”

I narrow my eyes and search for a place to put my CDs down. “Not really… I’m sorta in the middle of something.”

“We’re writing,” Lucas adds tersely. Now he looks like a rattle snake shaking its tail.

Milo glances over his shoulder, though I doubt he notices Luke’s anger. “Maybe we could write! I’ve always wanted to get involved in his story. Why, I’d make a grand antagonist, don’t you think?”

“No.” Lucas’s resolve was clear.

“We’ll see… maybe later.” I know Lucas glares at me for this, but he’ll just have to live with it. I just hope none of my CDs were damaged and that Milo will leave me to my work.

When I look up I see Milo is giving me the old puppy face bit. For a ruthless killer (and trust me, he is ruthless) he sure knows how to make a girl’s heart melt. I can’t help but sigh in defeat. “Alright, alright… I’ll find someway to work you in.”

“Wait, wait, wait!” Lucas is up from his seat and his face is burning red. Well, burning pink actually, being albino doesn’t give him a license to look crazy mad. He looks sort of like the victim of an exploding pixie stick. “Now he’s involved! Christ what are you gonna have him do – molest me!” Milo makes a face. “No… I can’t work like this. Its just too confusing, you can’t stick to the story line!”

This is getting to be exacerbating. “It is my story, you know. You just happen to be in it.”

“Oh, and the fact that the story is about me gives me no voice. Are you freaking kidding me? You can’t expect to get us published if you just throw me all over the place in your writing – I’ve got a personality, I’ve got beliefs and values, I need to be a real person.”

“And you will be,” I’m starting to clench my fists. “The fact that Milo is going to be in it doesn’t change that. So would you just relax?”

I watch as a sigh cuts through Lucas’s teeth. Fangs exposed he looks quite fearsome for a moment. Lucas really is a nice guy, with plenty of wisdom he and I both feel should be shared with the world. Sometimes, however, he has moments were he starts to fall apart under the spotlight and just needs a minute to wipe the sweat from his eyes. Milo watches this display with interest. I am grateful that he keeps his big mouth shut. “Look, why don’t we all just take a break, huh? I think I feel a spell of writer’s block coming on.”

“Me too,” Lucas mutters. As he exits the room I catch a spark of blood-light flash from my third muse’s sunglasses. Lucas is my oldest, Milo is my youngest; the muse in the hall is the middle child. He’s not watching us, but he likes to make me think he is by starring so intently from across the hall. Although he’s almost completely blind he knows intuitively that he is a creepy fellow and takes great pride in this fact. Six foot five with a hair cut so eerily average you’d think it belonged to a cereal killer; he can always be seen wearing his heavy black trench coat and carrying his cane, which is embroidered in Chinese dragons and conceals a katana inside. Believe it or not he’s become extremely skilled with the sword, despite being blind. That probably has something to do with him being a psychic, but he’s not telling me anything. He greatly enjoys his secrets. In fact I knew him only as a brown haired teenager for a year and a half before he finally revealed himself as the skinny fashion impaired vampire I see lurking in the hall. He goes by Binx (sometimes he lets me call him Binxy Boy. I doubt he likes that very much). His full name is Scott B. Cameron. If you knew him, you’d realize why he goes by Binx. He is simply not a Scott.

Binx steps aside to let Lucas pass without as much as a hello. While Lucas despises him, as he does most of my other muses, I think Binx actually has some respect for him. That could just be my imagination. There’s no doubt about his relationship with Milo. They both dislike each other; I don’t doubt Binx would like anything more than to see his head rolling across the carpet. Fortunately for my youngest muse that would leave an awful stain, and I am strictly against anything that involves cleaning up messes.

As he strolls in, completely nonchalant and cool as a cucumber with freezer burn, Milo’s playfulness quickly subsides for he knows that my most diabolical muse has a vendetta against him. “What was all that racket about?”

You’re probably imagining Binx to have the deep threatening voice of a villain like Darth Vader or The Green Goblin. While you’d be correct in assuming that Binx is a villain (at least a very naughty anti-hero) I regret to inform you that his voice is not at all villain-like. He speaks with the supremacy and clarity of God himself (because he thinks that’s who he is) but he was made immortal at the mere age of seventeen, so his voice has not yet matured. There are kids at my high school I could compare it to.

If you’re asking how he can be seventeen years old and six foot five; don’t bother. I call it a vicious pituitary gland, a sensible explanation considering he is constantly pumped full of excessive testosterone.

Dropping into my computer chair I sorely explain to Binx about the argument Lucas and I were having a few minutes ago. He could steal the information from me at any time of his own accord anyway.

Binx, who is leaning in the door way like he’s too important to stand in front of me or something, scoffs at my explanation. “You are a bit of a bitch, Stephanie. A lot of a bitch. You shouldn’t put so much pressure on him, lest he explode and break your neck.”

“And you’re a bastard,” I reply with a grim smirk. He has told me this many times. I’m used to it. “And Lucas is too nice for that, anyway. He’s just PMSing again, he’ll get over it.”

I’m suddenly distracted by Milo tapping my shoulder. “This is all terribly enthralling, but would you mind getting on with me? I think my brain is turning to fungus from lack of stimulation.”

“That would be a relief to us all,” Binx comments.

Caught between a laugh and a sigh I swivel around to face Milo with my hands floating above the keys. “Alright, what do you want to write?”

Milo’s face sports a Cheshire Cat grin. “A love scene.”

“No,” I wince. “I’m not even ready for that.”

Once again Milo attempts to use his puppy face against me. He doesn’t get me this time, for I know Milo all too well. Any love scene suggested by him will quickly and inevitably lead to a love-making scene. I barely know anything about romance as it is, and as far as sex goes… I refuse to soil my computer with such pestilence.

“Oh, come around, now! You’ll have to write about romance eventually, you might as well start. Lesson one –“

“No, no, no, no, no!” I cover my ears and duck my head. “Thank you, Milo, but I’ll burn that bridge when I come to it.”

“No, look,” Milo leans over the monitor and starts hitting the keys with his finger. “The sky was-“

I slap his hand away with angst. “No, Milo. No. That’s a cliché. I don’t do clichés.”

“You do too! What about Binx, yes? A blind psychic who works as a private eye; tell me that hasn’t been done, because I can name about fifty of them.”

“You can not. Besides, Binx is…” I glower at my blind vampire standing in the door. “Is not going to smoke his damned cigarettes in my house.”

“Shut your mouth,” he barks, cigarette still clutched between his fingers like a crucifix to show his creed. “I’ll smoke wherever I damn well please. I’m just a figment of your deranged imagination anyway; even if second hand smoke does exist you can’t get cancer from that.”

“Point taken, but you still can’t have it.”

“You’re a bitch.”

“And Jesus loves you too. Now do you have any bright ideas or are you just going to stand there and glare all day?”

“Wait a tick, what about me?” Milo complains.

I give him a discouraging look. “I’m not writing romance and you know it.”

“Doesn’t have to be romance. I’d fancy a bit of gore as well, I know how you enjoy that! Come on, let’s storm the castle walls, slaughter some peasants and sing koom-bi-yaah my lord. The plague sounds like a wonderful subject to get flippant about.”

I clench my fists over my eyes in pure anguish. At last I can breathe again. “You know… I think I’m gonna take a breather. You wanna come watch cartoons with Luke and me?”

Milo’s face sags and he shakes his head gravely. I find this odd, for Milo has a passion for the art of animation and just about anything involving pencil, paper and inspiration. “You know ol’ Luke has no taste in cartoons. I didn’t realize he even watches television.”

“He doesn’t. Just flips channels, like its some kinda sport.” I start to glance at Binx, only to find him gone, probably outside so he can have his smoke. He drinks too (which is quite a funny sight and something I’d get a real kick out of writing down) and on top of that has probably done just about every drug in existence. He used to be as big a prick about his stories as Lucas; I’ve been writing for him for almost five years now. Lately I guess he’s just lost interest. Every now and then he’ll come stalking up to me with an idea for a plot that usually turns out to be pure genius if we can see it through. He’s the quiet one, probably because he spends all his time brooding over his next adventure while the rest of us run around in crazy circles screaming bloody murder until something finally gets typed up.

At long last Milo slides off my computer desk, giving his back a good long stretch as he wanders around my room. I switch off Microsoft Word in vain, knowing in the pit of my stomach that nothing will be written, no grand discovery to be made today. There’s a bit of advice I have for anyone who wants to become a writer which may have been whispered in my ear one steamy California afternoon by my albino friend, who through his sense of creativity and compassion has taught me so much about art and life in general.

“Learn something new for yourself every day; big or small, each new lesson counts.”

I’m always dissatisfied when a day goes by and I feel I haven’t learned anything. In retrospect, maybe I have. After all, one can’t be a genius every day of the week. Perhaps it’s best I just plop down on the couch and give it a rest.