I have been told, by a certain social-media-manager-who-thinks-too-much that doing these kinds of things is far more important of a strategy these days than having a proper cup of something warm.

I have to be blunt, and please pardon if it seems a little trite, but I have, frankly, survived more plagues and revolutions than any medieval priest could ever think of praying away. I’ve gone through two wars of world-wide proportions, and even came through the ever-so-confusing era of the cargo short.

If, say, we were to meet, you would undoubtedly know, instantly and without hesitation, that I am a being of considerable experience and, dare I say, refinement, meaning—and please, do not take this wrongly—I really do not require your sympathy, nor your validation.

And yet...

Here we are, in the now and in this place.

The things you read here are not to be taken as a confession, nor, spare the thought, as a plea. It is not by any measure a desperate attempt on the part of a centuries-old vampire to explain himself to an exhausting, if charming, species.

It would be better to consider this a record. A carefully curated and crafted account of the ongoing project of proving—to those of my own kind who have declared, for reasons far beyond my ken, that my methods are eccentric—that there is a better way, a softer way, to exist together in this world.

I’ll not regale you with my heroics in these simple pages. You will find my dinner parties, all carefully planned and place-set, interrupted at the most inconvenient of moments, my precious tailoring perpetually under threat, and my attempts at simple, rational discourse with the supernatural community-at-large being received with the most disappointing lack of nuance or care.

Gordo, as well, will be here. He, who has opinions about everything and keeps them to himself precisely long enough to deploy them only with the maximum of inconveniences.

And Delia, my ever-present-for-some-reason hanger-on, who I am still not entirely sure is real. I don’t even know what a “pastel goth” is, other than those are two words which should probably never belong together.

The stories you read here are inviolately truth. Gordo, in his strange wisdom, has suggested I—of all people!—do not always recall things correctly and instead inject “a slight dramatic inflation.” Imagine the audacity! I recall everything quite directly, my good man, and I’ll thank you to not claim otherwise.

Perhaps taking truth from someone who drinks thimbles of questionable river water every Sunday for more decades than most have lived should be called into question.

I, on the other hand, am always beyond reproach, and I have the weight of all of Victoria to show it.

I am Sebastian Crow. Contrary to what some may claim, I do not bite people. It is far from dignified and civilized.

Welcome to my continued existence.

Try not to leave fingerprints on anything.

Is this the button to stop recording, De—

Sebastian Crow is an old vampire with a new problem: he’s tired of being a monster.

Armed with a computer, a dwindling supply of ethically sourced blood bags, and the exhausted loyalty of his 120-year-old human servant Gordo, he’s determined to prove that vampires can be civilized.

His fellow undead think he’s a traitor. The local werewolves keep ruining his gazebo. And the vampire hunters? They have no respect for quality carpentry.

Bitten Then Written is a series of dispatches from the front lines of immortal public relations, written by a man who has seen centuries pass and just wants his neighbors to knock before staking.

Through his stories, he chronicles the absurdities of undead life, from negotiating minion benefits to surviving coven mixers where the gossip hasn’t changed since the 14th century. Equal parts social commentary, supernatural sitcom, and surprisingly sincere meditation on what we owe the beings we feed upon.

Spend some time with the most reluctant predator you’ll ever meet.

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Thank you from the depths of my dark little soul for being here. Keep striving to “be the best you that you can be” at this moment.

A creature of the night should only be burned by the glorious, terrible rays of the actual sun, not by a plastic desk accessory purchased with a coupon code.

I’d just finished a nice aperitif (type-B) and pushed my way from the dinner table to make my way toward the foyer.

I’d been anticipating spending time in my library all day. I fairly flew from my coffin as the dusk fell upon the land and across my castle walls with the excitement of the upcoming session.

See, I had something in my possession I’d been wanting for three decades, and I relished the chance at poring through it.

It’s not every day a vampire comes across the lost pages of the “lady” who’d sired him. Oh, I know it’s, perhaps, not quite polite to call an old dame a lady with such vitriol, but, my friends, she deserves it.

I’d been informed some years ago there was the possibility some of her diary pages existed in the world, lost from her hands when a horse bucked her off and ran away during the Roaring Twenties. I don’t think I’ve ever wished to be a horse so much in my unlife, but here we are.

Anyway, those pages had been floating around since then, passing from hand-to-hand and vault-to-vault until, finally, blessedly, they were placed in my hands by my servant Gordo.

He refused to say how he had gained such a treasure, merely calling it a gift for a master who’d been as faithful to him and he’d been to me.

Such a splendid boy, he is. I must get him something nice for his upcoming 139th birthday party.

Those very pages were even then sitting on my desk in my library, awaiting my presence and perusal. I’d heard many rumors about the scandalous words on those pages, and nothing would please me more than to spit them back in her face, were I to encounter her again.

I was just rounding the corner out of the dining room and into the foyer when the most blinding light I’ve ever been witness to struck every particle of my being.

Instantly, my skin sizzled, and my precious vintage velvet across my arms wafted smoke.

I could see nothing else but blinding white and the smoke rising as the pain swept through my pores, through my chest, and out of my mouth in a scream.

I dove—rather panicked, I admit—and my body crashed around the edge of my heavy mahogany credenza, my eyes closing and gasps escaping my throat as everything eased.

Oh, the pain was intolerable. Undignified! But, more importantly, what had just happened?

Somehow, though the night was well upon my hearth and home, the light of the sun had entered my foyer and crushed me beneath its horror.

Had it finally happened? Had technologically advanced vampire hunters outflanked me? They’re always trying to come up with new indignities for my kind.

I huddled in the shadows, trying to assess the damage while my ears remained perked for the sounds of rushing feet and clanging swords. Even now, there could be a moribund and bearded goon with a cheap IKEA stake lying in wait for me around my divan.

Worse, it could be one of my rivals, somehow harnessing the power of the very thing we must not endure to use against me. I thought I’d made good progress in relations with some of the others, but there still remained some few who would love to see me dusted.

They’d never do it themselves, of course. That kind of thing is unbecoming. Uncivilized. But they’d have no compunctions to hire someone, or having one of their own minions leading a charge.

I’d not turned to ash, though there were already welts of red and white appearing on my skin. The light was more than powerful enough to destroy me, had I remained in it for any longer.

Imagine... the indignity of a vampire getting a sunburn in his own damned living room.

I slipped the phone from my pocket and dialed Gordo. I didn’t know where he would be then, not having seen him all day, but I didn’t think he had any errands to do.

He answered with his usual grunt, and I muttered something about the focused beam of localized dawn currently steaming through my halls, and hung up.

I wanted to glance around the edge of the credenza to see what magical forces were invading, but my eyes still burned from the last exposure. Tempted as I was, I did not want to deal with it growing even worse.

It was only a few moments more before Gordo came into the foyer, carrying a large wrench.

I called out to him, and he squinted as the blinding light crossed over his face and body. Bright... so bright, but it fazed him not.

He disappeared from view in the next heartbeat, and I heard him shuffling across the marble floors until he stopped some feet away.

Another pulse, and the light faded away.

What had happened? Was Gordo okay? Were we actually under attack?

I lifted my head slowly over the edge of the wood and saw my man casually twirling a cord around in his hand, a soft smile on his lips.

Nearby, on one of the end tables, that twirled cord attached to a large lamp.

Perhaps the greatest threat I’d faced since 1994 was a lamp.

“Oh! You turned off my light!” The high-pitched voice of Delia fluttered through the living room, echoing slightly across the tapestries.

“Your lamp?” I started to stand up, though the aching in my arms and face made it difficult. “What have you tried to do?”

I admit, my anger rose. Yes, I know, I try to not be like the others. I don’t like those ancient instincts that tell me I have to be some predator or filled with violence and rage. It’s unfortunate that it’s so much a part of the DNA of us fanged ones.

So, yes. My eyes flashed their brightest and the skin of my face darkened in turn, and I could feel the edges of my fangs itch. But then I gripped the edge of the credenza and forced a breath or two.

She may be one of those strange “pastel goths,” (her words) and she may not always understand what it means to live amongst the unliving, but she’s never meant any harm.

I stared at her as things inside eased and asked my dear assistant, “What lamp do you mean?”

She’d not even seemed to have noticed my flash. “Well I thought it would improve the vibes around here a bit. It’s one of those Seasonal Affective Disorder lights.” She stepped toward Gordo, grabbing the cord from him. “My friend said it’s supposed to really help out when you’re feeling bad.”

My brows raised. “A what?”

“Oh, you know, Sebastian.” She tossed the cord across the top of the lamp on the table. “I just figured, you know, if we’re going to live in the night, we may as well bring a little spunk to the place.” She shrugged, the pastel pink shirt ruffled as she shrugged.

I sighed, the breath huffing heavily. “Delia, look at what that thing did to me. And my clothes! Do you know how much I had to pay to get these custom made?”

She giggled, her purple-and-blue hair twirling in her fingers. “Look, if you’re so vitamin D deprived you get a rash from just a little bit of light, maybe you should think about taking supplements. I can get you some online.”

“Supplements!”

“Well, yeah, or maybe a bit of moisturizer. I could—”

Before either of us could say anything else, Gordo stepped to the lamp and picked it up.

“I think the this might just be too high of wattage for the old wires here, don’t you?” He threw a look my way before walking off with the thing, Delia trailing behind, still talking about the living room needing a little more hominess.

I did finally make it to my library, but it was an hour before I could think about picking up the letters to read them. Gordo brought a bottle of green gel, calling it a nice aloe vera rub, while my mind whirled.

I know Delia means well, and she’s done much to update this place and get us more into “the new century” since she became my assistant, but I tell you, some days I miss the old ways.

Wooden stakes and garlic at least have some respect for dignity.

Modern wellness culture? It just seems indiscriminately hostile to the undead.

Ever yours,
Sebastian

THANK YOU FOR READING!

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☕ Drop a tip in the Ko-Fi Jar: Fuel the creative chaos! As a thank you, any tip automatically unlocks a 1-month VIP pass to my paid tier.

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Thank you from the depths of my dark little soul for being here. Keep striving to “be the best you that you can be” at this moment.

MORE BITTEN THEN WRITTEN:

SONG by Serene Serendipity

Let’s have a frank(enstein?) discussion about our lupine cousins, the Lycanthropes. Or, as I prefer to call them, the “Furricus Interruptus.”

Now, I bear no inherent ill-will. Some of my most financially reckless moments were lost to a particularly persuasive werewolf named Fenrick in a game of Whist in 1882. The problem isn’t the individual; it’s the… aesthetic.

We vampires cultivate an image. We are creatures of elegance, of quiet contemplation in moonlit libraries, of a fine vintage that happens to be O-negative. We are, in a word, curated.

Then you have the werewolf.

Where do we draw the line? Let me illustrate.

The Shedding.

I draw the line at the shedding.

I hosted a solstice soiree once. The next morning, my entire east wing drawing-room looked like a wig maker’s workshop had exploded. It took Gordo a week to de-fur the velvet settees.

Unacceptable.

The Punctuality.

Or lack thereof.

We make plans for a lovely, civilized evening on the 14th. But if the moon is full on the 13th? They cancel. Every time. It’s terribly difficult to maintain a social calendar when one’s acquaintances are slaves to a celestial body.

The Table Manners.

Need I say more? We vamps are connoisseurs. We sip from crystal.

They… well, they tend to enjoy their meals directly from the source, with all the messy, enthusiastic tableware one would expect from a wolf.

It’s not a critique, you see. Merely an observation of contrasting dining philosophies.

The Howling.

My word, the howling.

It’s not that it’s unpleasant, per se. It’s that it always seems to happen right when I’m reaching the crescendo of a sonata on the harpsichord. It completely shatters the mood.

Don’t get me wrong…

Now, before you think me a terrible snob (I am, but that’s beside the point), I must confess their hearts are often in the right place.

Why, just last month, a local pack—utter scoundrels, really, led by that scamp Fenrick—chased off a band of torch-waving villagers who were threatening my gazebo. It was dreadfully loud and three of my prize-winning night-blooming cereus were trampled, but the intent was there.

So, we draw the line at the mess and the noise.

But we welcome the occasional, brutish assistance. It’s a delicate ecosystem, you see. We are the subtle, enduring chill of the tomb; they are the sudden, violent storm.

The world needs both, I suppose, even if one does ruin the carpets.

Ever yours,

Sebastian

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TALES FROM CENTER:

BITTEN THEN WRITTEN:

Thank you from the depths of my soul for being here. Keep striving to “be the best you that you can be” at this moment.

SONG Provided by Serene Serendipity

We all have our pet peeves. For some, it’s a poorly brewed cup of tea. For me, it’s the constant, tiresome threat of being impaled by a pointy piece of wood. In the spirit of my mission to foster understanding, I wanted to present a teachable moment: my top ten grievances with stakes.

The Splinters:
Honestly, have you ever gotten an oak sliver under your nail? It’s agony. And it’s not like I can just pop down to the local chemist for tweezers. They use wood under the fingernails for torture purposes in the human world even to this day, and it is for a reason.

The Stigma:
It’s so… predictable. Where’s the creativity? The panache? A garlic allergy, now that would be a charming, culinary weakness. But this? It’s just brutish.

The Fashion Inconvenience:
I had a stunning Alexander McQueen jacket ruined. A perfectly placed stake can completely undo a lifetime of cultivating a stylish, anachronistic wardrobe.

The Quality Control:
These so-called “vampire hunters” have no standards. Is it aged ash? Fresh yew? Or some particle board nonsense from the local hardware superstore? Have some self-respect.

The Disruption:
You’re in the middle of a fascinating 200-year-old book, a delicate blood-orange sorbet, or a deep, philosophical debate with a gargoyle, and bam—sudden, uninvited woodwork.

The Assumption:
They assume one strike and it’s “poof, dust.” It’s a messy, painful, and frankly, dramatic affair. It takes ages to get the sawdust out of the Persian rugs.

The Poor Carpentry:
The points are never sharp enough, or they’re too crude. It’s an art form they’ve completely neglected. No pride in their craft.

The Unpleasant Sensation:
I feel this should be higher on the list, but I’m trying to be objective. It’s really rather uncomfortable.

The Principle:
It’s the sheer rudeness of it all. No conversation, no debate on the merits of my history. Just immediate, pointy violence. It’s uncivilized.

And the number one thing I hate about stakes?

The Inevitable Aftermath:
Gordo gets that look in his eye. The one that says, “I handled your problem, master, and my payment will be the contents of your wine cellar and three weeks of paid vacation.” That minion has a unionized spirit for being in a pre-industrial role.

It’s all so dreadfully tiresome.

Ever yours.

If you’d like to support what I do with a one-time donation, I do have a Ko-Fi available. Every single dollar is life-changing to someone like me.

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Bitten Then Written

Tales from Center

Black Rose Files

Welcome to Bitten Then Written, my desperate attempt at vampire-human relations. These words are to prove not all of us want to eat you, while convincing my fellow night-dwellers that my dietary “choices” shouldn’t make me a total outcast anymore.

One day, I came across a woman who claimed to be a Voodoo mystic.

She went by the name Madame X. Surrounded by the wonders and sacraments of her trade, she sat in her little shop and passed out her trinkets to her customers while giving them little bits of advice and premonitions she felt were real.

Now, I’m not one to fall for that kind of hokum. I’ve lived enough centuries to know when I see real magic, and she had none of it. But, sometimes it’s interesting to see what “the other side” has to say about the ways of the world.

You see, I had just recently, at the time of meeting this strange woman with her perfumes and patchouli surrounding her, come to terms with the fact I hate feasting on people. It’s a hard time in a vampire’s life, you know? Trying to find a space for a little humanity when that thing is stripped away is difficult, at best, and most of us would just rather not think about that kind of thing.

Still, I’d been wrestling with that little conundrum for some time, and thought, if I was to really get an answer that worked, it would be interesting to ask a person like this.

I had not even sought her out myself. Instead, one of my minions—Krag, I think it was—brought her to my attention. He apparently went into her shop to find some spices his gal enjoyed and thought the mystic would make an enjoyable meal. After all, she had to be well-flavored, being amid all the finery and scents.

Krag always worried for me, the dear thing. I miss him terribly.

Conscience-wrestling though I was, I thought I would go pay the woman a visit and made my way to her shop after dark.

I think she must have had at least a little experience dealing with we other-alived. She recognized me for what I was before she even saw a tooth and, surprisingly, had no fear of me. I have to admit I was grateful for that. It can sometimes get tiring seeing people flee once they realize who we are.

The thrill of the chase isn’t for everyone.

Anyway, she sat motionless in her immense chair on the other side of the table while I took the one across from her, only nodding when I asked if she was, indeed, Madame X.

She loosened up a bit once she came to understand I wasn’t there to feed.

I opened up to her about the problem I was having, and the answers she gave have actually stuck with me in the years since.

“There’s one thing you have to learn. You have to stop being afraid of it.”

When I admitted I did, in reality, like my lot in unlife, she pointed at my chest.

“You may like it now, but you’ll learn to love it later.”

It’s been a few decades since that meeting, and I am still, I suppose, waiting to have that love.

It’s not that I’m dissatisfied, though there are times you, my fellow creatures of the night, don’t understand me, much to my own chagrin. That’s why I started writing these journals and put them out for all of you.

It’s that I still don’t entirely understand what the end might look like for me. I know other vampires believe the ends justify the means when it comes to the treatment of our food and our placement above them in the chain of life.

Maybe, like Madam X said, I really am still afraid of what I am.

Perhaps there was indeed, a tad of magic in that woman, after all.

Bitten Then Written is the undead blog of a vampire who’s decided public relations is harder than resurrection.

He’s trying to convince humans they’re not all monsters, and his own kind that abstaining from the all-you-can-eat-human-buffet isn’t treason. It’s part memoir, part desperate plea for understanding, and a full-time rebellion against a very, very bite-forward culture.

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MORE BITTEN THEN WRITTEN STORIES

Welcome to Bitten Then Written, my desperate attempt at vampire-human relations. I’m posting to prove not all of us want to eat you, while simultaneously convincing my fellow night-dwellers that my dietary "choices" don’t make me a total outcast.

Maybe if my readership goes up, the Elders will stop sending me strongly-worded scrolls.

It never fails, does it?

There I was, enjoying dinner with my old friends Dearth and Howe, when the party crashers arrived.

It’s been years since the three of us were last able to be together, and I was excited to tell them all about my new developing site. I’d been working on it for months, getting it ready to show the world we monsters aren’t as bad as the “normies” make us out to be.

Plans. Big plans.

I was just getting into the good part, and they were giving amazing input with ideas on setting up summer camps to teach the humans how they are better off with us around, when the tinkle of glass resounded through the halls.

I know. We’re not your typical people, and some people find themselves afraid of us. Heck, there are normies who think slugs are the worst things to happen to the world, but I know for a fact Karanga isn’t such a bad bloke. People fear what they don’t know, which is my entire point of making this post.

These guys, these barbarians at the gate, so to speak, didn’t have the decency to knock on the door or even try to be gentlemen. No. All they wanted to do was come in, tear up my beautiful tapestries and paintings, and drive a stake through the hearts of me and my good fellows.

Stakes! How passé! Can’t they think of better things to work through their personal problems than stick a splinter in and call it a day?

Wild, uncivilized cretins, all.

Gordo and the other minions handled the situation, of course. He’s indispensable, definitely worth the price I paid old Solomon for him. I just wish he didn’t need to eat as much. He’s going to deplete my resources if I’m not careful.

We were able to get back to the dinner, though I’m afraid it rather dampened the mood for the rest of the evening.

Still, the men who attacked us had good taste. I’ll have to get Gordo to open up another of their blood bags later tonight to celebrate us going public.

I just hate having to replace these windows all the time.

Ever yours.

MORE STORIES IN THIS SERIES:

Bitten Then Written is the undead blog of a vampire who’s decided public relations is harder than resurrection.

He’s trying to convince humans they’re not all monsters, and his own kind that abstaining from the all-you-can-eat-human-buffet isn’t treason. It’s part memoir, part desperate plea for understanding, and a full-time rebellion against a very, very bite-forward culture.

Want more? Make sure you hit Subscribe to get them all.

Or… you know… don’t, and miss out on the chance to bridge the gap between species.

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