SHORT STORY

It's been a while since I sat down and wrote something for fun. College is chaotic... Anyway, please, tell me what you think!

THIS STORY HAS NOW BEEN DELETED.

Well, I can't really go back and nit-pick. I thought that it was very, very nively done and that I could barely stop reading it. I starred it I hope that someone will nitpick for you, (it's late where I am and I cannot think) but I honestly don't think there are many nitpicks. I'll be looking for the next chapter!

Let me just say, I like it. At first, when you see he's a vampire, I instantly thought 'Damn, another Twilight ripoff, and it will be bad'. Luckily for me, the thing was great.

Points:

1) Would a three year old be put in an asylum? Do they even manufacture straightjackets that small? I mean, I think that there are areas for mentally unstable children, but, well, I would look into that.
2) I don't know why, but the psychiatrist smells of innocent, dumb human-sponge. I just think that, well, she should have a little more character than 'She likes him coz he's all cute and stuff'. I personally would have added some coffee, which she would shake, and spill over herself, inducing some comment about how humans are so... emotional, or something like that. But give her more than 'Aww, he's all cute and stuff! I will definitely not question his claims that he is a vampire!'
3) She instantly accepts that he's a vamp. This doesn't speak of psychiatry to me, this stinks of occultist, or someone who will believe anything anyone tells them. I mean, imagine if all psychiatrists were like that?
'I see from your record that you are highly violent and stuff.'
'No I'm not, I'm totally sane.'
'OK, here's your refund.'
I don't care that he's pretty and adorable. I don't think that someone who looks for the inside would care, and use this as evidence of being a vampire.
Yes, he's incredibly talented in speech. But there are such things as child geniuses. I just don't think that a psychiatrist would instantly believe that he was a vampire, and not build on the 'maybe he's incredibly gifted'.

So yeah. I'd just look in for the psycho stuff. Other than that, it's great.

Beautifully written. I loved the fact that even though he's not a child he still has his little tantrums. I was hooked from the very first line.

I'm glad you guys liked it! Can someone maybe please do a nitty-gritty review?

WOW. I am simply speechless. It's late, and I can't really think, and since I am new i don't know how to do a nit-picky thing, I just want to say I absolutely love it! I'll be looking for more, most definitely.

Aww, shucks. Thanks! I really wish someone did a review though.

This is an amazing piece! I loved it!
And i really love your title!

Hey there, I will be giving you a nitty gritty review. My corrections will be in red and my comments in bold. First of all, I found it very intriguing. However, it is very long. In fact it is 3,038 words, which makes most reviewers run away in fright. Typically, we like to keep submissions under 1,500 words. In the future it might be helpful if you post a submission this long in two parts. But onto the review.

“He’s only a child.” the psychiatrist whispered from the doorway of the darkened ward. For a while she simply stared at the adorable toddler leaning against the sponge wall, the tiny straitjacket enveloping and restricting him seeming quite absurd and unnecessary. He was around three years of age, and beautiful. No, beautiful could not possibly justify the angelic figure lolling in the ward. Sloping black locks curtained his pallid face, his round cheeks without a hint of color, his full lips blue and icy. And he was shaking, violently. Worrying something was ailing him, the psychiatrist ran into the dark room, heels sinking into the sponge floor, kneeling beside the boy, a flashlight clamped in one hand. She reached her other hand to the boy and quickly withdrew it. The boy was indeed shaking, from wild, uncontrollable laughter.

And the child’s bright, bloodred eyes fluttered open with inhuman speed. “I am far from a child,” the red-eyed boy scoffed, his boyish tone overridden by the articulation and contempt of a man, malice etched into his cherubic features.

The psychiatrist leaned back, shocked, and nervously ran her quivering fingers through her long, brown curls. “So it’s true,” she began, stopping suddenly, her free hand falling limp to her side. She found herself at a loss for words. You tend to use a lot of elipses, which are the ... which is not necessary. Wherever you feel the urge to put an elipse, put a comma instead.

The little boy shot her a reassuring smile that did not touch his bright, bloodred eyes, a contemptuous smirk one would think a three-year-old was incapable of, and finished for her, “That I am different?”, and He relapsed into quaking fits of laughter, slipping onto the sponge floor beneath him. Could you give a different description of the floor and walls other than spongy? Every time you say sponge, all I can think of is one of those yellow sponges my mom uses to clean the dishes.

The psychiatrist was filled with a sudden need to protect the beautiful boy before her, to love him, to cherish him, forever. The lovely boy cringed at her outstretched arms and shouted, “Do not touch me! Stay away, you hear? Leave me be!”

This saddened the psychiatrist. She stared into the angered boy’s wide, round eyes and found herself unable to look away. The child’s eyes conveyed more than their outrageous, murderous color, they conveyed a horror within, an unsatisfied beast, a rebutted desire, a need, a thirst. Things which a child’s eyes, customarily drowned in innocence, simply should not convey. They were the eyes of a man, years of knowledge making themselves known upon the glossy, red discs. His pupils were sharp pinpoints of black fire, and they burned into the psychiatrist’s quite ordinary, brown eyes until she had to break the gaze and turn away, unable to stare into those red windows any longer, fearing the burning, black fire lapping beneath the glutted, red waves would consume her. I thought this paragraph was very eloquent, I liked the description of his eyes, although at times it becomes a little overwhelming. Maybe you could cut out some of the description?

The boy clamped his eyes shut again, a frown playing on his icy lips, and began rocking backwards and forwards against the soft lining of the sponge wall. And he began to hum a lovely tune the psychiatrist did not recognize but she found herself humming along with the adorable three-year-old, enthralled by his very presence. The child stopped abruptly after several minutes of this and opened his bright, bloodred eyes once more, examining the woman before her as if weighing her pros and cons, suspicious of her true intentions, unsure of what he himself wanted. Since you went into such a detailed description of the boys eyes, I don't think you need to keep repeating details about them.

“Do you think I am insane like the others?” he inquired. “Do you think I am mentally unstable, in need of help?” Silence rang in the dark ward, the only light coming in from the ajar door, nurses and other hospital personnel cautiously peering in from the bright hallway. He waited for the psychiatrist to respond, to gather her thoughts, her fingers nervously entwined in her brown curls once more. He found himself amused at her perplexed state. He looked it, too.

She began to speak, stopped, and said, “Honestly, I don’t know what to think. The nurses said you were uncontrollable, untamable, when they found you. You were thrashing around, like, like a wild animal. Clawing at them, snapping your jaw, clicking your teeth. And now here you sit, perfectly calm, serene. When you simply stopped the the, feral behavior, you began to voice your thoughts, opinions, resentments, in a way no normal three-year-old should be capable of, is capable of, and here I am addressing you in a way no normal three-year-old should be addressed, is addressed. I don’t know about mental but you’re certainly special, gifted. But I need to know how… how… you came to be this way. The nurses say you have refused to speak to anyone who has been here the past two days. How can we help, if you refuse us? The circumstances in which you were found were questionable, and these gifts you exhibit certainly are questionable. You’re only a child—” The psychiatrist stopped abruptly, seeing the flash of red anger shoot across the beautiful boy’s wide, round eyes. This is quite a lengthy speech, which in a normal conversation, does not occur. See my comments on dialogue at the end of this review.

“I told you, I am far from a child!” he shouted, the voice emanating from his tiny form wrong, out of place, not a boy’s. The child sucked in a lengthy breath and glared at the eavesdroppers hovering in the doorway of his ward, eager for a glimpse of the wild child, of the miraculous toddler. He turned back to the silent psychiatrist, thinking, and whispered, “You are not like them? You will listen to what I have to say? You will believe?” he questioned her, his tone almost malignant, unbelieving. You keep emphasizing the child's beauty, his eyes, and the fact that he does not talk like a normal toddler. Repeating this information over and over makes me feel as if you think your readers are slow to pick up these details or you're using these details as filler. Either way, it is no good. You'll notice from here on out, I've striked out any information that I feel is redundant.

Yet the psychiatrist took no notice at the vehement tone leaping out of the tiny throat of the pretty boy before her. He was far too compelling, endearing, divine. She found herself giving into his will, his wish, dazed. “You must tell me,” she begged.

“I will speak only to you and to you alone, that door must be shut,” he said, authority flowing from his chubby body. This should be a new paragraph. The psychiatrist found herself at the door, shooing away the hospital personnel, ignoring their refusals, their warnings. She found herself instructing them that she did not wish to be disturbed, no matter how pressing the matter. Soon four walls of sponge encompassed the lovable toddler and the psychiatrist. Four walls, no light, and silence, unnatural, deathly silence. Lovable? Really? So far, you've not described him in any lovable way. Even though the shrink is enamored with him, doesn't mean your readers share this same sentiment.

“May I turn on the lights?” she asked the boy, wishing nothing more than to see his cherubic face floating before her once more, wanting to stroke her fingers along his pallid, round cheeks, brushing his full, blue lips.

“No! You must not turn on the lights. I cannot bear such a strong, contained form of illumination without my talisman. The talisman those fools lurking out in the hall stripped me of when they threw me into this hellhole.” He was speaking language a three-year-old simply should not be capable of grasping, is capable of grasping.

“The nurses informed me you were deathly afraid of light, but I’m afraid I don’t understand.” the psychiatrist breathed, mystified and filled with her want to see the toddler again, to hold him in her arms. I don't think people are capable of breathing words. Sometimes the best synonym for said is said.

The boy let out a harsh cackle and whispered, “They are fools. You must listen to me, do you understand? You may use the flashlight you were clever enough to bring along, but do not point it directly at me. You must be cautious.” Dim light filled the room, adding an eerie glow to the sponge walls surrounding them. The child curled up against the sponge wall beside him, the psychiatrist taking a seat a few feet from him, restraining herself from embracing the boy, from comforting him, from petting him. “Shall I begin my story, my reality?” he veered, his bright, bloodred eyes dancing with dark excitement, with the flickering light of the flashlight.

“Please, do,” the psychiatrist urged, barely containing her own excitement, emotions, rumbling and rippling through her crouched form.

And so the child of eternal matter, the child of the night, the glimmering vampire child, began to tell the captivated human before him his story, the story of his existence. This sentence really bugs me. Less really is more in this case. Choose one: eternal matter, child of the night, or glimmering vampire child. Not all three, at least not all in the same sentence. Also, choose either his story or the story of his existence. This eliminates a lot of repetiveness.

The child was silent. Then he cleared his tiny throat and said, “I am a vampire. Can you cope with this? Can you bring yourself to believe it?” He bore his red eyes into her brown ones, waiting for her answer.

The sweetness of his breath, the manipulative rolling of his speech, intoxicated the psychiatrist, and she replied, “Y-y-yes.” In truth, she did not know if she believed, if she could cope, but what she did know was that she wanted him to continue, to speak with that trilling voice again, to mesmerize. And the boy knew this, he was experienced, he was in the know, he had long since tested his abilities, his skills, his gifts.

So he released a little laugh through his drawn lips, leaning towards maniacal, and continued, “I am a vampire, and of my mortal life I know next to nothing. I was born in the early nineteenth century, in the midst of New England. The Industrial Revolution had yet to overwhelm the nation, and large patches of land separated family from family. It was in such a patch of land where I found my immortality. In the dark of the night, I wandered past the boundaries of my parents’ tilled land, lost, unsought for, with the curious wonder of any mortal three-year-old. With my little legs aching, I cried for my mother, for my father, to no avail. They were perhaps miles away, too far to hear even my screams. A dark shadow answered my yelps, hunting me while tears stained my cheeks. Its blackness filled my beating heart, and I felt two daggers pierce the frail skin of my tiny neck.” The vampire child stopped, lost in thought, forgetting the psychiatrist, the human. He was far away from her right now, centuries back in time.

“Pain,” she said, and much to her pleasure caught the attention of the boy once more. He looked up at her and smiled a sickly smile, on the threshold of laughter.

“I do not remember pain attached to the act, the bite of death. It was rather pleasing. The rush of blood spouting, peaking euphoria. My tiny mortal body trembled with sheer pleasure, delight. And then, to my dismay, the dark shadow pulled away, its heartbeat pulsing in my veins, my own slowing minute by minute. I clung to its cape, crying for more, warm blood pouring down my front, drenching me. A rhythmic male voice pined, ‘You are dying, young one. I have already drunk too much. Here, now you must drink.’ I was at his throat then, blood graciously slipping into my tiny throat from a slash in his, my chubby fingers cupping the cold, porcelain skin beneath his jaw. Giving blood is one thing; receiving it is a whole other,” the vampire toddler explained. “The shadow quaked beneath my lapping, his ecstasy seeping into my veins, groaning that I must stop, that I was draining him, wanting more nonetheless. And then he hacked me off, gasping, holding me at bay. I was in a frenzy, bloodlust consuming me. It did not matter whether I was full or not; what mattered was the constant flow of blood. I wanted it.”

The vampire boy licked his full icy, blue lips, the taste of blood almost fresh on them, remembering his first experience. The psychiatrist wanted to cringe back from him, to tear the sponge door open, to be away from this thing speaking so erotically about bloodlust, but she could not. The boy needed her, and she him. Above all, she must comfort him, protect. He was so fragile, a glass doll. Ignoring every instinct in her body, every cell that was screaming in agony, every revulsion she felt when she thought of blood, she leaned towards him and asked, “Who was he, the vampire that turned you into what you are?”

“I do not know,” he whispered, his voice off as if he was fighting back tears, the innocence of a child flickering beneath the red hate. But there were no tears when the psychiatrist stared into those red discs. Perhaps he was incapable of even producing them. Perhaps. “There were voices in the dark fields, the shine of torches in the far distance. The shadow fled from me, fearing to be discovered I suppose. But the mortals never reached me. I believe he took them. Why he didn’t come back for me, I cannot determine. I lay in the field, glutted, imagining this was what a leech must feel like, a greedy leech at that. And I was dying; the mortal part of me was dying. I lay there in my own sap, my stench, growing steadily hungrier. You see, I was a newborn vampire. I could not possibly be satiated for long. I called for my mother. When I hungered, mother fed, but she did not come to me, she did not know where I was. I wanted to cry again, but tears did not come. I was done with mortal fluids. My lips grew dry and cold, my skin stretched, my veins popped and burned. I did not just want blood now; I needed it. That is when the field mouse scurried past me. Before I knew what I was even doing, I was in a crouching position, growling, hissing, spitting, my nature and instincts overtaking me. And I pounced on the little thing with such speed; I could have sworn time had slowed for me. Its bone crunched beneath my strong, chubby fingers. This time my own two tiny daggers pierced into the limp ball of meat in my hands, clean slits left by the new, strong fangs.”

The psychiatrist knew she should scream. She knew this demon child before her should repulse her. But she was drawn to him like a wasp was drawn to light. He was beautiful death. For some reason I felt like wasp was not the right insect for this description. Perhaps moth? Or you could change light to pollen.

“Was this k-k-kill also euphoric, like your turning?” she found herself asking.

“It was quite possibly the worst first kill any vampire has had the ill fate of enduring. I cannot verify this, however, for I have met few others like me in the two centuries I have witnessed. Cold trepidation was the only feeling the poor creature conveyed through its scant quantity of blood. Fear leaves the most disgusting flavor in one’s blood, you see. I was angry and hungry—a deathly combination for a newborn. That night, in a single childish tantrum, I left any living thing I could sink my newly fashioned fangs into drained and dead. I believe the mortals went on to attribute the deaths to some sort of plague. Fools. Dawn was nearing, and I was feeling weak, no matter how bloated with blood I was. That is when she came for me.”

“Who?” asked the psychiatrist, involved, nervous again, fingers running through her matted hair.

“Vivien,” the adorable vampire child replied. “She was wearing a rich red velvet robe over her black gown that complimented the rosy color of her eyes, her red hair flowing down to her waist. She looked around my mortal mother’s age, and this was what made me accept her and love her at once. Scooping me up off the gruesome pile of bodies I perched upon, she held me in her arms, explaining that she was now my mother, my sole guardian, that I was hers for eternity. Lavender. That is what she smelled of. She then proceeded to slip a pewter talisman molded in the likeness of the moon over my tiny head, instructing that I must never take it off for any strong, contained form of light could reduce me to ashes. I lived with her from then on… until. Oh, Vivien,” the boy moaned.

He was sad, and the psychiatrist could not possibly allow him to be so. Ever so gently, she pulled beautiful death into her lap, stroking his silky, midnight hair, hugging the adorable baby boy to her chest, silent tears streaming down her face. She needed to make him feel better at once. She wanted it.

The vampire child broke away from her, shivering with emotion. “Vivien—She became my companion in immortality. Together, we saw America become what it is, the world become what it is, with these glutted red eyes. But I was nothing more than a vampire doll to her, an offering to fill her vacant lap. You see, vampires don’t reproduce the way you humans do. We bite. That is how our kind exists; it is our way, our heritage. But Vivien fought against her nature. Always so full of life, so near humanity, she refused to kill your kind; the species that were so like us. She raised me like her child, teaching me to feed on wretched, lowly animals—trepidation always on my tongue. But I bore it—for her. She was so very beautifully stupid.”

The boy shook his head, seemingly on the brink of insanity, and continued, “But what she considered to be the bond of love between mother and son had grown to be the bond of love between lover and lover to me over the years. I did not go out in search of my creator, in search of others like me, because of her. She was all I needed. Every stare, every touch, every silly, little kill—meant so much when I was with her.”

“You loved her?” the psychiatrist asked, confused. “But she was much older than you, wasn’t she? You’re just a little boy, while she was a vampiress.”

“Did I not make it clear that I am far from a child!” the vampire shouted. “Though my body has remained the body of the small mortal child I once was these many, many years, my mind has grown. It is not the mind of a mortal. It is the mind of a vampire. My curse has always been this body! To never grow in the eyes of others! To never obtain Vivien’s love! Do you know what that means?”

The psychiatrist crept closer, brushing the lovely boy’s silky hair.

“She betrayed me,” he whispered. “She proved to be nothing more than a succubus, feasting on carnal pleasures with mortal men. She cared nothing for me.”

Characters: I thought the characters were well-developed. The only complaint I have is that we don't know their names. I'd like the boy and the psychiatrist to be called something other than the boy and the psychiatrist. Also, you say the psychiatrist has brown curly hair and brown eyes, but we don't know her age, her build, or what she is wearing. I'd like more details on this, which you can weave into your dialogue.

Dialogue: You tend to have your characters give these lengthy speeches, which like I said earlier, is just not natural. Here is a quote from Gail Carson Levine's book Writing Magic on dialogue:

Short bursts of speech seem natural to the reader. In real-life conversation, people sometimes do speak at length and without interruption. But when we're reading, long speeches usually seem awkward and stiff. If a character has a lot to say, break it up. Let whoever she's talking to chime in with a question. Or stop the speech while the other character makes a physical gesture. Or interrupt the speech for a minor event: a stiff breeze, a noise on the stairs, the sun breaking through the clouds. It's best, naturally, if these gestures or events connect with the story.

Just make sure that whenever a new character speaks or does something, that you start a new paragraph.

Plot: Its interesting, a vampire trapped in the body of a child, and now locked up in an asylum. I wonder, what does the pyschiatrist does in response to this? Is she now perpetually afraid of vampires? Does she help the boy escape from the asylum? Does she go crazy herself? I am excited to read more.

Setting: My major complaint about the setting was that you constantly described it as a sponge. Synonym's you could use include: springy, cushiony, soft, squishy, and pliant. Remember that when describing a setting you want to use as many of the senses as you can. Okay, so the room is dimly lit and spongy. What temperature is it? What does it smell like? What does it sound like, is it soundproof, or can you hear footsteps in the hall? What color is it? Is there a window? Is the door padlocked? And remember that the sense of smell is directly attached to the sense of taste. So perhaps if the room smells like ammonia, you can also taste the ammonia.

Overall: It is a strong story, with a good plot and well-developed characters. You write eloquently. Honestly there are very few corrections that need to be made. Watch your redundancies, break up your dialogue, and give us more details about the setting. Hopefully, this has been helpful. Keep writing!