Vampires

I have always been fascinated with vampires.  A lot of people have, it seems.  I will admit that I grew up reading Anne Rice.  I was in love with Lestat in high school.  But I think there is a deeper meaning to our endless obsession with the vampire.

I find it very interesting that almost every culture has some kind of vampire character.  They look pretty different, but they all survive on some sort of essence stolen from another human.  Most of the time it is blood – literally our life force – but it could also be chi or spirit or any number of things that cultures believe humans need to survive.  The fact that most cultures have created a human-ish creature that feeds off other humans is quite interesting because you know what else most cultures seem to have in common?  A moral objection to cannibalism.  Before we started romanticizing the vampire, they were demonic, frightening cannibals.  The fact that they looked somewhat human, yet other, was terrifying.  Unlike dragons or beasts, they could move among us without detection for the most part. Granted they only moved at night, but before modern advances in electronics, nights were pretty freaking terrifying for everyone. 

Vampires association with the night can also be seen as a moral tell through the lens of western culture.  For Christians, and possibly Muslims and Jews but I have not done the research, goodness is associated with light.  This can be a figurative or literal light, but good thing = light, bad things = dark.  Because of our historic fear of the dark, monsters and demons in most cultures are linked to darkness.  They are some of the things that go bump in the night.  But in Western mythology, the vampire’s association with darkness is even more interesting.  Vampires have a human form, in most cases were human at one point, but then, when they become vampires, they are no longer able to be in the light.  They have been denied, in Western understanding, by God himself.  From intolerance to sunlight (the celestial sphere that gives us life) to intolerance to religious places and images, the severity of vampires’ damnation grew over time.  So to recap, vampires are damned cannibals.  At least from the Western perspective.

So how did we come to idolize vampires?  Well, vampires also have a lot of good things going for them.  Yes, they are murders (since they have to feed on us to survive).  Yes, they can’t go out in the daylight (which is when the majority of human productivity and interaction occurs).  But hey, they were immortal (in some cases).  Jus think of all the things you could do if you could live forever.  This immortality also brings great sadness and epic loneliness.  Now who can’t relate to sadness and loneliness.  As we learned to look past the murdering demon bit, we began to see a tragic figure.  A handsome man or beautiful woman forced to wander the earth alone in the darkness forever.  Swoon.  For many, the vampire represented a very appealing Faustian deal.  Eternal life and youth in exchange for living off the lifeforce of your fellows and never being able to get a tan.  It seems rather tempting.  As electricity lit up the nights and the darkness began to disappear, it seemed even more enticing. 

In its current incarnation, the Western vampire has become everything thing we fear, and everything we long for at the same time.  We have defeated the dark, so damnation holds no real fear for us anymore.  We are still a little wary of murder and cannibalism, but we have become desensitized to death over time, and I would argue that many in the modern generation feel somewhat detached from their fellow human beings.  In our secular society, we see the darkness in the vampire as a mirror of our own darkness, but so much cooler.  The vampire has become an antihero – sullen, brooding, beautiful, and irresistible to modern audiences. 

Now the vampire of other cultures hasn’t changed quite so much.  For the most part, other cultures still seem to be stuck on the whole “it’s a cannibal” thing.  And perhaps the Western vampire will make its way back to being a real monster at some point – after becoming so much of a caricature of itself that it no longer commands any respect as a real monster (cough, cough, sparkles in sunlight).  But we can only wait in see.

For myself, I still think it would be pretty cool to be a vampire.  Yes, the killing part would suck.  And there really isn’t a whole lot to do after 2 a.m., but the idea of being able to watch the progression of the world is enticing.  Having all the time in the world to write, travel, and experience life (or unlife) sounds pretty good.  Just think of how much you could accomplish is you made every second count for all eternity? Plus, the outfits!

Michelle

“Michelle?  Michelle?” a voice called.

Tiffany stopped walking when a hand touched her shoulder.  “Michelle?”

She turned and smiled at the confused young man who had stopped her.  “No,” she said.  “Not Michelle.”

His face turned scarlet, and his hand flew from her shoulder like a startled bird.  “Oh my god!  I am so sorry.  I thought you were…”

“It’s okay.”  

Chartreuse

For some reason, I always thought the color chartreuse was some color of red.  Like a pinky, purpley, red.  Similar to fuchsia.  I was pretty surprised when I actually looked it up and found out it was a gross yellowy green.  I really don’t like chartreuse now that I know what color it really is.

I feel this is an experience a lot of people have.  You really like the idea of something, but when you find out that your idea of what that thing is is wrong, you suddenly don’t like that idea anymore.  I have seen this happen with philosophies and religions.  I have seen it happen with movies, music, and books, once the underlying meaning was discovered.  I keep hearing in my head that line from the Princess Bride – “That word, I don’t think it means what you think it means.” 

How we react when our view is challenged says a lot about us.  In the midst of the political shitshow that is this presidential election, I can’t help but feel like many Americans, including my friends, are not really looking our best.  In a way, I am fascinated by how educated, kind people suddenly turn into snotty school kids.  My e feed has a severe case of split personality as my friends up-vote and share the latest click bait in favor of their preferred candidate.  It is plastered with accusations, name-calling, misrepresentations, and out and out lies from both sides. 

But on the other side, I am embarrassed.  I feel like most Americans are not really looking at their candidates.  They are looking at an idealized version of that person created and approved by their party.  They are choosing to only see the idea, not the actual person.  Or the inherent problems in the overall system (which I think are what we should really be worried about). 

I didn’t like the color chartreuse when I found out what it really looked like, but I didn’t deny its existence or accuse Wikipedia of a conspiracy.  I think Americans need to take a step back and take a good, hard look at their candidates.  All of their candidates.  We need to take into account where information is coming from before we jump on any bandwagon.  The truth might not always be what we want it to be, but it does exist; we owe it to ourselves to constantly search for it.  

Imagination

The swing screamed in protest as Dylan swung his legs slightly forward.  Years of disuse had left the joints crusted over with rust.  He sighed and put his feet back on the ground. 

Years ago, when he was a boy, this swing had seemed so much more.  He had pumped his legs furiously, trying to get up enough momentum to launch himself into space.  3…2…1… Lift off.  He had flown through the air, landing hard on the soft red dust of Mars, ready for battle with the Martians.  Donavan was always a few seconds behind at lift off.  Always stumbled a little on landing.  But then they were off, battling for Earth’s survival against evil space creatures that looked a lot like the girls in their class.

Astronauts, dinosaur hunters, pirates, and professional athletes, they had turned this playground into one imaginary place after another.  They were oblivious to the graffiti, the broken and run down equipment, the trash.  It was all left behind with the Projects as they were transported to better lives inside their games.

But the real world had a way of eating away at imagination, the way that poverty had a way of eating away at hope.  There was no time for make-believe when Donavan’s dad went to jail.  He had only been eight.  No time to pretend, or play, when Dylan started trying to pick up odd jobs to try and help Mama put food on the table.  He had only been ten.  Childhood ended early for them, like so many kids with the same color skin.

Dylan had made it ‘out.’  He had given up almost everything for a chance at college.  Everything except football.  He got a partial scholarship to play for a small school two states away.  He worked two part time jobs and took out student loans to cover the rest.  He graduated with a mountain of debt, lasting damage to his knees, and a teaching certificate.  He was a high school football coach; far from the astronaut he had dreamed of being as a child, but he was happy.

Donavan hadn’t been so lucky.

Ignoring the swing’s protest, Dylan pushed himself back and let go.  He gripped the rusty chains, trying to rub away the feeling Donavan’s cold skin, the smooth lacquer of the casket, the dirt he had tossed into the grave.  Donavan hadn’t been so lucky.  Dylan pumped his legs.  The old swing set shuddered and squealed in protest, but he swung higher and higher.

3…2…1… Lift off!  For a moment Donavan was there, just behind him.  The future stretched out, full of possibility and hope.  They would be astronauts, or dinosaur hunters, or pirates, or professional athletes.  They would fly away.

He landed hard.  Pain shot up through his knees and he fell. On his hands and knees in the dirt he cried; silent tears for the boys killed by the graffiti, the broken and run down playground equipment, the trash, and the Projects.  Donavan was buried with a bullet hole in his chest.  Dylan couldn’t see the hole in his chest, but it was there all the same; years of poverty, inequality, and struggle burrowing their way toward his heart.  It would kill him too, one day.

Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself up.  It would kill him one day, but not today.  

Road

“Alright, Ian, time to hit the road.”

“But I don’t want to go.”

It didn’t really do to argue with a three year old in public, so Andrew scooped up his son and hoped the resulting screams wouldn’t rupture his ear drums.

But Ian didn’t scream.  Instead he quietly wrapped his arms around Andrew’s neck and rested his head against his father’s.

“You feel okay, buddy?”

“Mhmm,” the toddler muttered.

Andrew tucked his son into the car seat in silence.  Something had to be wrong.  Ian was never this quiet.  He even tried tickling the boy’s ribs, an action usually met with shrieks of laughter.  Nothing, a silent smile.

Ares

Ares dug his cleats into the ground.  He focused on the quarterback just over the pads of the linemen.  He blocked out the noise of the game – the cheers of the fans, the blare of the trumpets.  There was nothing in his world except the quarterback.

The snap was made and Ares exploded off the front line.  He collided with two linemen in a clash of grunts and pads.  He forced his way between them.

The quarterback was before him, unprotected and unaware – half turned looking down the field.  Ares smiled.  He lowered his head and charged toward the enemy.

Whistles blasted the play dead.  Ares lay on top of the Titan’s quarterback. 

“What the hell is your problem,” the player yelled, pushing Ares off and jumping to his feet.

Teammates from both sides circled and refs descended on the huddle, blowing whistles and waving their arms as Ares and the quarterback pushed each other.

The fight was broken up before it had even begun.  Ares jogged back to his sideline to wait for the next attack.

Zebra

“What’s black and white and red all over?  A zebra with a punctured artery!  Oh, I know it’s morbid.  You were expecting something trite like ‘it’s a newspaper.’ Then we would all pretend to laugh at the supposed wit.  But guess what, that’s not life.  Life is dirty and bloody.  Its a zebra bleeding out on the dry grass of the Serengeti as a lion rips into the stringy muscle of its thigh.  Life is horrifying.”

Janet took a long drag on her cigarette. The room had grown silent as her comments had slowly rippled through the party like a fat, ugly stone dropped on the calms lake surface of polite society.  It was what she wanted.

“The zebra is not dead yet,” she continued.  The heat from Tasha’s eyes was pleasantly warm on Janet’s pale shoulder.  Her host scowled harder and Janet smiled slightly.  “No, death won’t come for minutes.  But they will feel like hours.  The lions will feast.  The zebra feeling every bite, every lick.  Excruciating pain.  And the blood…”

A blonde covered her mouth and ran toward the bathroom, knocking over a bottle of merlot on the way and ruining the moment.  The spell was broken.  The guests went back to their happier conversations – one or two risking concerned glances at the strange woman in the corner telling horror stories.  Janet sighed as the clamor of conversation picked up around her.  The only one still paying any attention to her was Tasha.

Janet flicked the cigarette ash onto the beige carpet under her feet.  “Sister” she said, taking another drag.  

Car

“Do I need to start the car,” Jessica yelled into the bathroom.

“What’s the temperature,” Dylan yelled back over the roar of the shower.

“Seven.”

“Yeah, you should probably let it warm up for a little bit.”

Jessica grumbled as she piled on coat, gloves, scarf, and hat.  She hated starting the car.  It meant she got snow on her shoes and then had to pace around the house in all her cold weather gear while the machine got it’s oil flowing.  Getting bundled up was not an easy chore when you were as big as a house so she didn’t want to do it more than she had to.  Hopefully the baby would come soon and her body could get back to normal.

Only her eyes were showing when she finally pulled the back door closed behind her.  The morning was already blindingly bright.  And cold.  Even through the scarf, it hurt her lung to inhale.  She moved quickly toward the garage.

The old Honda growled and groaned as she turned the key.  It took a moment, but the engine caught.

Her toes were already icy and her teeth chattered as she rushed back toward the house.  She was almost there when she slipped on a sheet of ice hidden under a thin layer of snow.  Her legs flew out from under her and she fell backward, screaming.

Dylan rushed from the house.  His hair was dripping and steam rose from his naked chest.  He was only dressed in boxers.  He rushed toward her.

Her left wrist hurt badly and her tailbone was probably broken, but she didn’t dare move.  What about the baby?  No, no, she kept repeating in her head.  No.  

Facing a Phobia

Anna took a breath and stepped toward the overturned cup. 

Then she squeaked and jumped back.   Her chest tightened, forcing the air out.  She gasped, but couldn’t hold it in.  As her gasps increased, so did her heart rate.  Then the tears came, hot and large.  She slunk back against the wall, sinking to a squat on the floor, her eyes never leaving the cup.

She couldn’t do it. 

She melted into a panic stricken, hyperventilating mess in the corner, unable to move, to think, to help herself.  Her whole body was shaking.

She knew it was irrational.  She knew the spider under the cup couldn’t/wouldn’t hurt her.  But she was paralyzed with fear.  Her fear mingled with frustration at herself and soon the tears became sobs of bewilderment and anger.

“Anna,” Kate called from the backyard.  “Anna?”

She tried to answer, but the words couldn’t get over her dry tongue. 

“Anna?”

Kate’s face went white as opened the door and stepped into the kitchen.  “Anna!”  Kate rushed toward her, almost kicking the cup.  Anna jumped up and hid her face in the corner.  Then Kate’s arms were around her.  Kate cooed in her ear and forced open her clenched fists.

“What is it?” Kate asked.  “What is wrong?”

It took Anna several minutes to calm down enough to stutter, “spider.”

Kate turned and saw the overturned cup.  “Shh,” she said, wiping the tears away.  “Did you trap it under the cup?”

Anna nodded. 

“I am so proud of you!  Anna, that’s fantastic.”

“But…”

“Anna, you trapped it.  You kept your head.  You got close enough to put a cup over it!  I am so proud.”

Suddenly, the tension drained from Anna’s shoulders.  Not all of it, the spider was still under the cup and she could feel its presence, but enough.  Kate was right. 

“I will just take it outside,” Kate said, pulling away.

“No,” Anna cried.  “Kill it!  If you put it outside it will just come back in.”

Kate smiled kindly.  “Okay, but I will kill it outside.”

Kate used a piece of junk mail from the kitchen table to trap the spider in the cup.  Anna fretted and shook in the corner, but managed to keep herself mostly together.

Once she was outside, Kate tipped the cup right-side up and thumped the piece of mail to make sure the spider fell to the bottom.  She took away the mail and smiled into the cup.  “I will pardon you this once,” she said to the small brown spider gently feeling its way back up the side of the cup toward freedom.  “After all, it was me that let you in.  Good work.” 

She dumped the spider into the grass on the far side of the yard then went back inside to comfort Anna.    The girl really had come a long way. 

Samantha

“I really don’t understand why we’re doing this.”

Samantha just rolled her eyes, hoisting the coil of rope higher on her shoulder.  “We’re doing this because we were told to.”

“I know, but why,” Adrian whispered.  “Why is it so important?”

Samantha was used to these questions.  She often wondered why her cousin had followed her into the service.  It was not a place to ask questions.  But always, when they were alone, Adrian would start up on “why.”  But tonight really was not the time.  In the darkness before them Samantha could make out the walls of the compound.  Reaching back she squeezed Adrian’s arm.  There was a sharp intake of breath and Samantha knew there would be no more questions.  For now at least.

Slowing her breathing, Samantha watched the walls, searching for sentries.  No torches, no movement, no guards.  Could they really be that lucky?  Samantha did not believe in luck.  It was dangerous, made you lazy.

They approached the compound, clinging to the deep shadows of the forest.  Someone had let the trees creep almost up to the walls.  For Samantha and Adrian it was a boon, for the people behind the walls it meant death.  No, not tonight, but with war on the horizon, soon.  Samantha wished she could warn them.  She had joined the service to save the innocents.  Regardless of their allegiance, they were still women and children, men who would never fight, but who would suffer.  Samantha pushed the thoughts from her head.  The war had not come yet, may never come to this secluded stronghold.  Especially if their mission was successful.

They were within feet of the rear wall of the compound.  Samantha slipped the rope from her shoulder.  Her palms warmed through her gloves as she ran the rope through her hands, feeling for the hook and keeping her eyes on the top of the wall.

A silent prayer floated up into the darkness as Samantha swung the hook.  She did not know what they would find over the wall.  Hopefully a sleeping village, but the gods only knew.

The hook bit into the hardened clay bricks of the compound wall.  Samantha tugged to set them.  Whatever awaited, it was time to find out.

Forgot Something Important

Alan touched the naked spot at the base of his ring finger with the tip of his thumb for the millionth time that evening.  No warm, hard metal. 

For twenty years he had never left the house without his wedding band.  He felt so incomplete without it now.  Like he was undressed or exposed somehow.  His thumb rubbed over the area again.

Kathy smiled across the table at him.  “How is your steak?”

“Oh, just great.  Perfect.”

“Is something wrong with your hand?  You keep rubbing your finger.”

“Oh, no.  Just an itch.”

He felt wretched for lying to Kathy.  But how could he tell her the truth.  And what about Sarah?  She would understand, he knew.  She was always so understanding.  But it was still a betrayal.  And now he was lying! 

This had all been a huge mistake.  He wasn’t ready.  He would never be ready.  He just couldn’t do this.  He had been a fool to listen to Mark!

Slowly he pushed his plate away.  “Listen, Kathy, I have had a great time but…”

“I’m sorry,” she said.  “I am not very good at this.  It’s been a while since I was on a date.”

“Me too,” he admitted.

“To be honest, I almost didn’t come out tonight.  I mean, you are lovely.  I think you are a great guy, but I… I just can’t do it yet.  It’s just too soon. Mark insisted…  He said you were so wonderful.  Just my type…”

Alan stared across the table at her.  Why was she saying the exact same things he was thinking? 

She took a sip of her wine, her eyes avoiding his.   “But I am not ready for another relationship.  I shouldn’t tell you this, but my husband died.  Just a year ago.  I thought it was time to get back out there, but I am not ready.”

Alan dropped his silverware.  The sharp sound made her look up startled.

“Sarah died a year, seven months, and five days ago.  I’m not ready either.”

The Secret of Smell

I have often wondered how do dogs smell? Not the physical act of smelling, but how the brain registers and categorizes smell. A rose for example.  To me, roses smell old and bitter.  Of course they elicit thoughts of romance and love, but that is purely conditioning.  How would a rose smell to Harrison, though?  I guess this could be applied to any animal and any sense.  How does chocolate taste to a hippopotamus or silk feel to a bird?  Without reference it is difficult to comprehend. 

Does my best friend experience the same flood of memory at a whiff of Stetson as I do?  Impossible.  Perhaps similar images and memories rush through her brain, but she cannot remember hugging Popsie as we met him at the airport or snuggling up on his mattress while watching a movie with the family on Sioux Trail.  Popsie wore Stetson.  And washed with Irish Spring. 

That is the trick to being a writer.  You must take this completely individual idea of smell or taste and present it to your reader while keeping your fingers crossed that they will go with you.  You must make them taste with your character or at least believe that she is having an honest reaction.  A woman born and bred on cayenne laced crawfish in Louisiana is probably not going to balk at a tandoori chicken or fragrant curry.  Although an argument could be made for spices from other regions affecting her differently, more poignantly, than those she is used to, her palate is used to some heat and she would therefore not be knocking over glasses desperate for a gulp of mango lassi to cool her inflamed tongue.  The same goes for smell and touch. 

Each person has their own way of experiencing – a certain chain of thought linked to individual memories and emotions.  A writer must find a way to convince the reader who hates veggies that perhaps, just for a moment, they are the most wonderful food on the planet.  Even if they are brussel sprouts.  

Gods

Disgusted, Hera threw the magazine into the fire.  The glossy pages bubbled as they caught.

“Stupid, arrogant...  How could he write such lies!”

“Are they lies,” Zeus asked.  He stared innocently into his Metaxa, swirling the glass in his hand so that the ice cubes clinked softly against the glass.  “After all, our daughter is younger.  You cannot blame Paris for finding her youth more alluring.”

Hera clenched her jaw in furry.  If looks were daggers her beloved husband would be a pincushion.  She reached for her own glass on the marble mantle and finished it off in one gulp.

“Had you read the article,” she hissed, “You would know that insolent gossip monger was not comparing Aphrodite and me as we are today.  No, no, he says she is more beautiful than I ever was!”

Zeus sighed.  “My dear, you are reading too much into this.  It is just a ploy.  Sensational stories sell.”

Despite the heat of the room and fire of her anger, Hera felt cold.  She crossed her arms across her chest.  Goosebumps rose as the gold bangles on her wrists chilled her skin through the silk of her gown. 

He was seeing someone else.  But she didn’t want to tell the marriage counselor that.  She had started this process in good faith.  Actually thinking they could save their marriage.  The signs were all there, though, just like last time.  

Silence

I wasn’t concerned, at first, when the voices stopped.  Well, to be completely honest, I didn’t even notice.  There were too many things to do – too many night of reckless abandon getting drunk at the bar just sitting around a patio table chain smoking and talking about politics, religion, the state of the country today; modern day philosophers on an American Legion porch in the middle of Nowhere, USA.  But one day they were just gone. 

How long had it been?  Weeks?  Months?  Looking back, I couldn’t pinpoint when the silence would have started.  No life altering moments in my recent history.  But, perhaps that was the problem.  I shrugged it off.  They had gone quiet before.  It happens from time to time.  We just run out of things to say to each other.  They come back, though, when they’re ready – when I’m ready.

After a few more months, I began to worry.  They had never been gone this long.  At first I had been relieved.  I enjoyed the silence, my mind not constantly spinning, the voices not shouting over one another to be heard.  But now the silence frightened me. 

I have never been good at being alone.  Maybe that’s why the voices started.  Now they were quiet and I was lost.  I struggled to fill the day with more voices – real voices.  It worked most of the time.  But every night, as I lay staring at the ceiling, their absence was a sharp needle slipping through my ribs and into my heart.  I could feel the silence sitting on my chest, making it hard to breathe.  What if they never came back?