Fiction, Attempted

My name is Charles Harrison. I'm a professor of Ancient History. I teach at UCLA, three days a week, back to back, and when I'm not busy lecturing in the great city of Los Angeles or traveling all over the States for featured speeches and presentations, I get to spend my days at home, in a quiet suburb in LA - North Hills.

I have no complaints. I'm forty two, but I feel like twenty two. I don't smoke and drink only on occasion, so you could say I'm healthy like a horse. Working out regularly has been part of my weekly schedule ever since I could afford a couple of weights and a bar to bench press. My life is busy, interesting, and provides for changes in my routine that I look forward to from time to time. See, I'm married, have been happily for sixteen years. Two kids, a wonderful wife, a nice house full of laughter, toys, iPods, and pets – who'd want more than that?

But let me tell you, I've got it so much better, because I happen to love my job. I specialize in the Viking Age - my passion since I was a twelve-year-old skinny outcast no one would want to hang out with at school. My mother used to tell me that if I were to make a tower out of all books I had read, I'd get to climb on top of that tower and look at the world with a perspective different from that of others. I wouldn't care if Claude Crane, an older boy from the neighborhood, would try to harass me and beat the crap out of me every time he'd get a chance and then steal my lunch money. I wouldn't care that my geometry teacher, Ms. Broadway, was so lost in the dimension of tangents and cotangents she didn't know the right angle of her own butt to the chair (as a result, she ended up tilting it a little too much one day, and, inevitably, landed on her back, setting the whole class in throes of hysterical laughter.) Well, the rumor had it, that was all because of high spirits. Whiskey, Black label. I wonder how she got to buy that stuff on the teacher salary. But that's beside the point.

The first book that I'd gotten my hands on about Vikings was a collection of Old Scandinavian legends and myths. God, I used to sleep with that book under my pillow and read it at the dinner table. I used to carry it in my school backpack and study it during my lunch break. Pretty soon, I memorized every word pressed in that hardcover; the illustrations of mighty Thor, God of thunder, and Loki, God of fire, had captured my imagination for weeks. I used to dream about Valhalla and Valkyries – the virgin women warriors who'd fight on the side of men as Odin would command them and then take the souls of the fallen victors to the halls of feast, mead, and eternal glory. The Norse version of the world creation was captivating, so much so, I'd completely sabotaged the biology class when we were supposed to be studying the Darwinian theory of evolution.

But my Mom told everyone to go to hell and leave me the fuck alone. I'm adding the "f" word here completely on my own, because she'd never say it, but (I know my mother) she thought it – loud and clear, and I didn't need to be a telepath to know how many times she repeated that specific term of urban culture in her mind.

In a couple of years, my addiction with the brave blond men with blue eyes and heavy swords got transformed into something much deeper and overwhelming than a childish fascination. I proved my mom right when I won a contest on the best history essay in the local school district. From there, it was a road I look back at with no regrets. Countless hours spent in the LA library, reading, studying, comparing; extra classes for credits to help enroll in college; a scholarship to earn my Bachelor, and then Master's degree at Alma Mater UCLA; an internship with the California Museum of Ancient Art in preparations for a series of special exhibitions dedicated to the Viking era and expansion – the fourteen years that had made me a Ph.D and an authority on the Old Norse icons of exploration.

While I was dreaming of the dragon battleships, my real life took a steady course when I met her. She was a vision: shorter than my 6'4″ and much, much curvier, in all the right places. Soft blond hair – a perfect match to mine; blue-grayish eyes that turned green when she was mad or horny; slim waist and long legs; breasts like no other woman has or will ever have. Her sense of humor and dry sarcasm charmed me to the point of drooling, and in general, I don't even remember how I gathered bits and pieces of my jaw off the floor after she gave me a very well-thought argument why Odin was a fool to give up his one eye to Mirim in exchange for wisdom. I'd fallen for her in a matter of seconds, hard, deep, and forever (if I could live that long, that is.) But I can't, because I'm just a man, so I did the best under the circumstance: bought the most modest ring at Tiffany's (what? you think an intern had much to spare?) and proposed on our third date. I would propose on the second, but my buddy Hoyt had told me I'd have to give her the opportunity to experience the romance and the courtship. As it turned out, Susan didn't give a shit about that. She'd said yes before I got down on my knee. "You'll ruin your only good suit, get up right now!" she said and hugged me. Then she kissed me, and I have been enjoying those sweet kisses ever since. She stood by me, through ups and downs, pushing me when I felt defeated and ready to throw in a towel, get drunk and howl in fury; she cheered for me when I passed yet another career milestone. I'm proud to say that, although she is the backbone and the foundation of our family, I have supported Susan in her own endeavors and believed in her always. She is the strongest person I know, and she can bend the world if she puts her mind to it.

After several years of teaching, traveling and lecturing, I decided to take a semester off – completely, fully, selfishly off, for myself, to spend it at my whim and at my family's beck and call. Every morning, when I'm not due at the university, I go for a run. I'm an early bird – Susan calls me a skylark, while she's a true night owl. Surprisingly, we manage to work it out rather well. I wake up when she's asleep and go on about my business; she gets up to take the kids to school, returns for an hour-power-nap and then is up again, all smiles and "What's for breakfast, honey?" I love the slightly disheveled look she wears when she's like that – in her PJ's, hair messy, no makeup. Lucky, I'm so lucky.

She works in a hospitality industry – she's a part-time assistant to the day manager at the Beverly Hills Hotel. You call positions like that a "key person". She used to work twelve hours a day, six days a week, but when the twins were born, her manager faught with HR department and ripped the right to keep Susan on staff. She knows her job like nobody's business, and I've never heard about a single grievance against her made by a co-worker or a guest. Doesn't mean my wife is a saint. Not at all.

Nothing was different about that fine September morning when I prepared for a run fifteen minutes past the sunrise. At this time of day it was slightly chilly, but in a couple of hours the air would heat up to roasting temperatures. I pulled on my usual Nike shorts, wife-beater, and the snickers, plugged the earphones, stuffed the keys and the cell phone in my pockets, and left.

The neighborhood is usually quiet at six a.m. For most of the residents in this lucrative area (also one of the safest, which is why we moved here in the first place), it was still too early to rise and shine, and I drank in the clear air, concentrating on nothing but the feel of the pavement under my feet and the music flowing into my ears.

Usually, that's how my morning runs are. But…

For quite some time, I'd been consumed with an idea for a book. I've written a few already; mostly, research and study materials, articles, historical guides and such – nothing that a non-studend would pick up for a pleasure read.

I wanted to write something that would inspire at least a single person to do something special with his or her life – like that collection of the Scandinavian tales had inspired me and turned my life around. Not a dry text, filled with facts and findings; not a list of references; not a great study guide for undergraduates.

Just a book. A story.

And it had to be about Vikings. A Viking. A man from the North.

For a week, I'd been contemplating the idea, tossing and turning it in my mind this way and that. At first, I wanted to weave the story in the setting of the ancient world, but then I thought – how's that different from what I've written so far? I needed something… edgy. Something people could relate to. What if I brought my Viking to the modern day and age? What if I made him travel through centuries?

Time machine was a no-go. First, I wasn't going to write science fiction. Stephen King and Isaac Asimov have done it for me on a grander and better scale. Whoever doesn't know what the Dark Tower stands for or who Susan Calvin is has no right to call himself a fiction fan. I do. Second, I wanted to have a different creating experience and use my imagination to bring life to a person who supposedly lived and died a thousand years ago. Writing a book unlike the previous academic ones should be about fun, not just about fact checks, I decided.

But how would I make my main character survive that long? Should I make him a ghost? Lethargic slumber, then. Hmmm, no, that wouldn't do. He'd wake up and suffer a heart attack at the sight of bare legs stuck from under mini skirts, four-wheel monsters running on fuel he'd have no name for, and most of all – the language! He would have to spend months to adjust, and I just didn't want to write about that drag.

Then it hit me. He'd be a vampire. For real. He'd get to live in dark, preserving his physical age, changing his habits and learning how to blend in and survive. The idea presented a nice challenge – develop a character who'd have strong noble sides and an honor code, yet acquire some vicious qualities about him. I increased my pace and ran steadily for extra fifteen minutes, mulling over the details.

In a few weeks that followed, the image and the plot began to flesh themselves out in my head. The story took me on a journey I hadn't anticipating at first. I realized that in order for the reader to understand my Norseman, I'd have to give his backstory and build him one page at a time. There would have to be a sequel.

The first part, "Death, Undercover," was about a relatively young Viking who had a misfortune to help a hurting man. Of course, the man turned out to be a vampire; he drained my hero, made him his slave-child for two hundred years, and finally released him into the world, alone. The Viking's adventures throughout the Middle Ages had a hint of drama and a lot of funny moments. The draft went to a small publishing house my literary agent recommended, and, before I knew it, the glossy covers where printed and a handful of sellers showed interest in my paranormal mystery fiction.

Here's where my agent, Samuel Merlotte, hit the wall. He wanted to push my novel forward, market it out, arrange for signings – the whole nine yards. But none of that was possible, because I'd chosen to publish using an alias – a female version of my own name. I don't know why; perhaps, I didn't want my previous books to meddle with the impression this new story was intended to generate in readers. Or, like Susan said, I didn't want "the chicks in your class come up to the sexy professor during the office hours and ask for an autograph."

All that happened a year ago. The book was an immediate success, and the publisher begged for a contract for three more. I was hesitant. I could do a sequel, but a series of three…

"Why not?" my wife asked one evening, once the children were tucked away in their beds. "You don't travel like you used to before. Aren't you bored staying in LA, doing same ol' teaching?" Her southern accent was more pronounced when it was just the two of us, relaxing and talking.

We had no problems with me traveling. I'd always return missing her and the kids like crazy. Not to mention that after taking a break, sex with Susan was awesome, despite the phone sessions we'd have almost every night while I'd be away.

"I suppose in a way I do," I said. "But if I take this deal, I'm going to need another semester off at UCLA. I don't know if Brigant will agree to that." Niall Brigant, my boss, the person who held the faith of my tenure in his wrinkly hands, didn't know about my freelance endeavors in the lands of vampires and supernatural creatures. I'm sure if he did, he'd give the tenure to my rival Portia Bellefleur in a heartbeat. I didn't want to make her happy. She didn't like me, and the feeling was mutual. She was younger and very ambitious, and her three-inch heels could definitely be used as a weapon of choice.

"I think you need to do something different," Susan said. "Take the deal. And I'll get a nice coupon for your boss at the hotel spa, for every week while you're on leave. His wife loves pampering."

I laughed. Susan was quite devious. Niall had a fall-out with his better (larger) half, because she'd caught him watching on-line dirty movies. Or so I'd heard. For several months, the man had been trying to suck up to Maxine, but she was hard to please.

"I bumped into Maxine the other day, haven't I told you?" Susan continued. "At the mall; she was her usual unhappy-self. I'm telling you, she needs a full body massage and a couple of hours in sauna. Regularly." And she waggled her eyebrows at me.

And it was settled. Brigant agreed to grant me another extension, and I intended to use the time not only to write the next installment, but to outline the following two as well. That way, I could work on the books once my rotation at UCLA would start again, without burning out and becoming a sleep-deprived zombie surviving on coffee.

So, here I was, glued to the flat screen of my computer, my fingers dancing above the keyboard. The second part of the story was titled "Dare Or Die", in which the Viking vampire makes his own child and then meets the one. I was about to decide if she was size six or eight, when I heard the garage door sliding up and a car pulling inside.

Susan had gone out to bring the kids back from school, and she'd promised pizza from Domino's – no pepperoni.

"Hey, honey, we're home!" she sang, and the footfalls suit for two elephants alerted me that Jason and Adele where about to rush into my office and give me a hug. I braced myself.

"Dad!" they jumped at me, seven-year-old twins who looked like their mother, had a temper like their father, and minds sharp like a shard of obsidian.

"So, did you kill them all off?" Jason was jumping on my lap, and my daughter was tugging at my hair which I'd let out of the braid – big mistake.

"With a stake?"

"Is Pam pretty?"

"Is his girlfriend a vampire, too?"

"Are you gonna let Eric drink her blood?"

"Can he fly? It'd be so cool if he could fly! Please, Dad, please! Pleeeese?" Adele tossed her blond locks back and gave me a smothering look – something she had probably picked up watching that God damn TV.

"We'll see, young lady. One thing Eric always does, though, when he gets home, he washes his hands and takes his shoes off."

The two pairs of blue eyes widened, "No way!"

"Yes way. Now, go get cleaned up, your mother is setting the table in ten."

After a bit more squealing and whining ("I already washed my hands in the morning!" and "I haven't touched anything in school, I'm clean! Scout's honor!") my children released me and rushed to destroy something in the bathroom. What can I say, it's that age, I suppose.

"Did you feed Sophie and Andre?" Susan asked, peeking into the room.

"Two bowls of Purina after you left." The Siamise mother and son wolfed the food down as if they'd never been fed in their lives, and I'd given them extra servings. My wife didn't need to know – she was worried the cats were growing bellies too fast and weren't getting enough exercise.

"What about Arlene?"

"Sorry, hon, completely skipped my mind." That good-for-nothing parrot was quartered in a  huge cage hung from a ceiling in the den. Every day, it defecated all over it's home and then some more on the hardwood floor, and even the large plastic liner on the floor under the cage didn't help. I'd kill the fucking bird, but Adele adored her. Well, I legitimately forgot to feed the feathery pet. At least, there would be less shit to deal with, literally.

"Charlie, Charlie," my wife shook her head, but couldn't hide the smile. "Why are you apologizing to me?"

"To whom then? Arlene?"

But she was already gone, laughing softly.

The dinner at our home is always a family event. No TV, but certain books are allowed, like Georges Simenon and Agatha Christie for Adele and Jules Verne or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for Jason.

"I'll be a private investigator when I grow up!" my son suddenly announced, between the soup and the chicken. His face was flushed with excitement.

"No, you won't!" Adele sassed him, "You got to be smart to be a detective."

Jason stuck his tongue out to her and went back to "The Hound of the Baskervilles."

"Be nice," Susan said sternly to our daughter, and the girl lowered her eyes.

"Sorry, Mom."

Susan and I stayed up late that night; me reading, her blogging on her laptop.

"I forgot to tell you, Charlie," Susan said when the two monsters I loved more than my life woke up to beg for some water and then were out again. "Mr. Compton called in the morning. He was very insistent. Are you sure you don't want to talk to him?"

I ran my hand through my hair. "Sure. I've read the script, and the first season wasn't all that bad, but, Sue, they want all rights! And I don't get any say so in how the rest of the show will unfold."

William Compton was a representative of a large motion pictures company's affiliate specializing in cable TV shows. They had taken liking in my first book, and for a few weeks, Compton kept nagging at Sam, then somehow found my home phone number and went against all rules of business etiquette by calling me directly.

Sam had gotten the original draft of the script the company was considering for production. The first season wasn't half as bad as I'd been expecting. But there were major drawbacks – an hour every Sunday night for twelve weeks once a year would leave the characters without a consistent story line and the possibility of a steady development. The actor they wanted to cast as the Viking vampire was amazingly good looking, originally from Sweden, and his physical type was a perfect match, but he had a problem with long hair, or rather with wearing a wig. I could live with a few changes here and there, but I wasn't willing to compromise on the image of Eric Northman, including his appearance. The Viking was not to be tarnished and messed with.

On top of that, from a few words William Compton had let slip out, I'd gathered that the show producers wanted to depart from my vision in the second season and put their own twist on the story – and that's when "Dare or Die" wasn't even completed yet! I'd been furious and told Sam I didn't want to hear another word about the fucking contract. I wasn't about to give up all rights on my own creation for some smart ass to ruin it! If they don't like my ideas, they can write their own damn book, were my last words to Sam on the subject.

Unfortunately, Mr. Compton had a problem with hearing or understanding the word "no." Both, perhaps. He'd attached himself to a telephone in his office like a giant leach and kept calling me as if it was his number one mission.

"Look, I understand how you feel. But the show would bring a wider exposure to your book," Susan said, shutting down the laptop and putting it away. "Just think about it. You'd get lots of people to hear about your Eric Northman, and maybe half of them will want to actually read you. That's what you want – for people to read."

"Yes, I do." I wanted to inspire. "But I can't have mixed messages being sent. The producers want a complete freedom. They can change the plot, the characters, the main story – everything! The show will be a shell, an empty shell if I let them. I won't be able to stop them. I won't be able to ever say 'hey, I don't like what you did'. I mean, I've just created Eric's true mate – a human woman with special abilities, and she's size six. Do you really think they'll ever cast size six? They'll go for the cliché size zero petite with a six-pack."

"Well," my wife sighed, "Do what you have to do. You know you have my complete support  no matter what you decide."

We fell into a silence for a short while. I stared into the lazy flames licking the logs in the fireplace; Susan curled up on the sofa, her head on my thigh.

"I'm sorry, Sue," I finally said. "I'm being an egotistical ass. It's not just my decision, it's yours, too. You get to see me in that chair every day, you get to hear my incoherent rumbling about my writing day in day out. And…"

She sat up, meeting my eyes.

"The contract will pay a lot of money," I went on. "We have two bright kids. I want the best for them." Life isn't always black and white. When I was in college, my English 102 professor made us read "The Fountainhead" by Ayn Rand. I admired Howard Roark, for it took great courage to stand up for his principles even when the whole world seemed to have turned against him. I couldn't help but wonder, though, if Roark would act the way he did if he had a family to support, if he had people who depended of him with their lives. Children. A dying mother. A handicap father. If he did, and remained the same protagonist, sacrificing everything for his work, his vision, his truth, he would be nothing but a selfish prick for letting down those who needed his support the most.

Inner peace for the sake of your family isn't a question if you love your family.

"Don't sign, Charlie," my wife shook her head and touched my face. Her fingers were warm, caring. "You don't need to. We're more than well off. The college funds have already been started; Adele and Jason have nothing to want for. We give them everything they need; but most importantly, they need a happy father. And I need a happy husband."

I covered her hand with mine and nuzzled into her palm. She smiled and leaned closer. Her lips parted, and I found myself drawn to that tantalizing mouth…

A rough barking startled Susan, making her jump.

"Oh, Jesus!" She pressed her hand to her racing heart.

"Alan, shut up!" I yelled. "Right now, or I'll take you to the vet first thing tomorrow morning!" I'd been threatening to neuter that huge version of a pit-bull my wife found as a puppy two years ago and brought home. She has a soft spot for stray animals, even if they're ugly.

"Enough, the both of you!" She got up from the couch. "I'm going to bed. Are you coming?"

I scooped her up. The bedroom was on the second floor, but I've got muscles no less impressive than that Swedish actor. "My lover," I purred, "I shall, many times, and I promise, you will, too."

The blush on my wife's cheeks was visible even in the dark.

"Then you better hurry. The sunrise is in few hours."