Most Recent Customer Reviews For Confessions of Sylva Slasher
5.0 out of 5 stars As I say on the front cover …
A treat for Buffy fans — but 100% Ace Antonio Hall’s own twisted vision. Breathes new life into the living dead; run, don’t shamble to get a copy.
Published 3 months ago by Robert J. Sawyer
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A male writer and his first person female view. How does he get into the mind of a teenage girl?
Yep. I was a vampire with a long bare neck which Bolt Davidson’s ex-girlfriend gladly impaled with a three-foot stake. I was one big mess of gawking, gasping and bleeding all over the place. Here’s how it happened.
I was only there to interview him for my column Aspen Harp’s Hawt Hunks for the high school paper. Bolt had to go to his Aunt’s house after school and help her rebuild an engine at her auto garage. He said he’d give me an exclusive if I could catch him sitting down long enough. I did. I left my car right in that abandoned Border’s parking lot and ran across the street to catch the bus when I saw him about to get on in front of Kirkman’s Comic Book Store.
It was kind of gloomy outside, the clouds were bloated from eating up all the sun. The air stunk of rain from the next town over. I thought it would really suck if it started raining on my way back home. I’d been procrastinating getting new wiper blades, but, whatever, I didn’t care, I wanted to interview the hottest stud in senior high school. Bolt had already published stories in Marble Orchids Magazine, Lipstick Zombies E-zine and had just signed a deal with Simon and Schuster to publish his Dead Chick Walking novel. The bus was majorly empty, so we sat in the back, where I could lay my notes on the chairs next to me. I had one more question for him and I had everything I needed to write a fab story, and maybe give him my number … if he asked nicely.
“So Bolt,” I said, melting from his aquamarine eyes.
He brushed his hand through his long black hair, removing a strand from his face. “Yes?”
Omigod, I almost screamed—he was so cute. “You’re a male writer, writing in first person. How do you get into the mind of a teenage girl? I mean … you’re a guy …”
Bolt laughed. “I hope so.”
I pushed him playfully in his shoulder. “You know what I mean. I read some of your stories and they’re amazing. It’s like you’re reading my mind—like you were a fly on my wall when I had a fight with my mom, or when I pigged out on Twinkies and Chunky Monkey ice cream because some guy didn’t—”
The bus went over a super deep pothole and I fell into his arms, our lips were centimeters apart from touching.
“… call me,” I said, in a whisper, finishing my sentence.
The bus came to a stop. As a matter-of-fact, it seemed the whole world came to a stop, and the only thing that mattered was that I felt his warm breath brush across my lips like a whisper revealing the most primal of secrets. I gasped, and suddenly I was ripped from his arms and thrown to the floor.
A tall girl stood over me, pointing. “You left me for her!”
Bolt’s eyes widened. “Gretchen! What are you doing here?”
Something about pain that makes my fangs grow. It could’ve been the fact that this chick threw me like a rag doll. It could’ve been that her body was flawless, her hair golden like it was brushed a million times by the hands of a god. Besides her back pack, she barely left any room for imagination from her scantily clad clothes. I wanted—no needed to suck every drop of her blood, and kill her right there on the bus. I didn’t care who saw me.
Gretchen beat me to the punch.
“She’s a vampire,” she said, and in one motion, slipped a stake out of her back pack and stabbed me in the neck.
I opened my eyes and before my desk stood thirteen girls, varying from ages six to twenty-one, all seemingly impatient, all with their arms crossed…
“Wake up, Aspen,” Gretchen said. “Honey, maybe working these hospital hours and going to school full time is too much for you. I always have to peck you on the neck with my finger when we visit. It’s a wonder you can keep a job. Anyway, my mother’s parking the car. Tell her and Gammy we went up already to see our brother, will you?”
“Wait-a-minute,” I said, “You can’t go up there without bands. You’ve been here enough times to know the rules.”
I put hospital bands on all thirteen of Bolt’s sisters. There wasn’t a single male in his family on this side of the grave. All of his life, he’d been surrounded by females. No wonder all his characters in his books are heroines—or were heroines. He won’t be writing for a long, long time. My lips twitched, and I licked them, feeling a little biter’s remorse. Next time a guy says he’s going to call and doesn’t, maybe I should just forgive him, and move on.