True Blood and Fanfiction

Created and originally written by Alan Ball

Sookie shut her eyes.

Instead of black, the inside of her eyelids rosed into a hue of pink. She heard the sun's heat, on her skin, in her hair, splayed out on the browning grass. It crackled under the weight of her growing body - a body for two.

Her fingers traced her hips and stomach, rippling skin, the miracle of motherhood. She thought of herself, and thought of her husband, compiling the two into what this new life would be.
Vampires are created, not born. That's what Bill said.

Sookie reminds herself again and again that the child will be human. Or at least part. The blood of the fae that runs within her has carried into the child she bears, blood irresistable to vampires - blood of light and music and throbbing life. The telepathy and ability to weild and bend light have also carried. Sookie can feel it. Her daughter will be more powerful than she is, a fae with a vampire father. The two worlds have finally embraced.

She wonders what her daughter's life will be like. With two such powerful parents, she will no doubt be special. A special girl with a special name: Adele. The name of Sookie's murdered grandmother. The child will carry her light and love into this world.

Laying on the lawn of her Louisiana home, the birds cry. The forests, thickly bestowed with the burden of summer, speak volumes in the day's heavy silence. In a few hours, it will be night. Bill will awaken.

Sookie lifts herself up from the crippling grass and props herself up on her elbows. Her summer dresses are becoming too small, she notices with the anticipation only a first-time mother can know. Her eyes squint to the trees surrounding her home, their home. Along with heavy swamp moss and vines hang beautiful lanterns that Bill picked out for her. Papers of blue and pink and silver and gold. They do not sway, do not move. The day is still. Sookie closes her eyes from the glare of the sun and smiles, awaiting the rise of the moon. The lanters will be lit. She will put on her pearls. Bill will escort her out, to dance, and sing, and smile into eachothers eyes. Husband and wife, mother and father, vampire and fae. All is right in Bontemps. It is perfect.

Plunderverse

This is the original poem, Variations of the word Love, by Margaret Atwood

This is a word we use to plug
holes with. It's the right size for those warm
blanks in speech, for those red heart-
shaped vacancies on the page that look nothing
like real hearts. Add lace
and you can sell
it. We insert it also in the one empty
space on the printed form
that comes with no instructions. There are whole
magazines with not much in them
but the word love, you can
rub it all over your body and you
can cook with it too. How do we know
it isn't what goes on at the cool
debaucheries of slugs under damp
pieces of cardboard? As for the weed-
seedlings nosing their tough snouts up
among the lettuces, they shout it.
Love! Love! sing the soldiers, raising
their glittering knives in salute.

Then there's the two
of us. This word
is far too short for us, it has only
four letters, too sparse
to fill those deep bare
vacuums between the stars
that press on us with their deafness.
It's not love we don't wish
to fall into, but that fear.
this word is not enough but it will
have to do. It's a single
vowel in this metallic
silence, a mouth that says
O again and again in wonder
and pain, a breath, a finger
grip on a cliffside. You can
hold on or let go.      

This is the 'plundered' version, by yours truly.

This we use for those warm blanks in speech.
Empty space, the word - we know it isn't what goes on.
The glittering two of us,
Those bare stars press on us.
Love is metallic.
In wonder and pain, hold on.

*Hi Paul, I know this is a week late, but I thought I'd submit anyways! Just in case. Cheers.

A poem on death

Down pillows on the bed,
Birthed of your shoulder blades (these tender hills, popping stems)
Birthing your wings.
These you have acquired, along with wrinles and grey and rotting teeth.
Things you have made (babies, loaves of bread, salted meats, an apple orchard)
Things you have earned (a living)
Things you have dreamt (and refused).

I want to help you,
But i won't coddle an angel.

Critique;This piece reflects a life lived and reflected upon. The use of repetition byy the author creates a soothing rhthym, as this reflection occurs not in a stat of panic, but in acceptance and ascendance to death.
The metaphorical growth of wings reinforces the idea of ascendance to whatever after life one accepts; in this case, angel wings tie in to the idea of reaching heaven. It may also convey ideas of a good soul, or a true life lived, while not remarkably, but lovingly.
The narrator of the piece takes on a tone of comfort, yet in the last two lines, "I want to help you/ But i won't coddle an angel," resounds with the idea that death is a personal and individual journey. There is no accompaniment in death.
The poet is exploring the idea os the individuality of death reflected in life; totally personal. And while it is the connections of others that gives life its potency, many individuals surrender their personal rights and personal choices , losing power over the slef. The references to everyday tasks bring this idea to the surface - the everyday and the extraordinary, an the fine line inbetween.