Hydrus's Major Work

[Hydrus]

The Grim Reaper Wears Pink

 

A Suite of Short Stories

 

 

Contents

 

 

1. God’s Major Work (What King Lear Did Next)

2. Keeping Yourself Occupied

3. Hickery Dickery Dare

4. Vampires for Dummies

5. First Impressions, Last

6. Eulogy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“So this is death...well...”

 

- Thomas Carlyle

 

 

God’s Major Work

(What King Lear Did Next)

 

 

God had carefully planned his time so that somewhere between all the righteous smiting and the creation of some Band Six miracles, he would have enough time to create his major work. It had been hanging over his head for so long now that it felt good to sit down in his ergonomically designed back-friendly chair and switch on his laptop. He had been considering directions for his piece for some time, carefully looking over the syllabus outcomes as well as doing lots of background reading and research.

The outcomes sheet specified that he would be assessed on the creation of a sustained Composition, so it looked like they’d have to live to a ripe old age then. He had wondered if he could use the more conventional approach, something to appeal to the conservative markers, create something along the lines of a Beethoven or a......John Howard. But that had been done to death; he’d lose marks for sure. Perhaps he should do something a bit fresher, something young and flashy, write a Britney Spears, but those stories were all cool words, no substance. Impossible to apply readings to that one.

He could always do something a little Postmodern. The markers love that. Create something that couldn’t be understood, a Sylvia Plath or a Virginia Woolf.

Hmmm, post modern post modern....

Oh! That’s it!

The thought would have struck God like the proverbial bolt of lightning, but there was no one higher ranked to have thrown it, so the idea just sort of appeared, with almost no simile involved. Compose a writer! Aha! No one had done a decent one for years and years, and the markers would love the metafictional irony. Yes, that's a plan and a half!

Now all he needed was a plot line befitting a writer. OK, time to stop procrastinating.

God started to type slowly, using only his two index fingers (he still hadn’t mastered the American accent needed to use the voice recognition system), an expression of deep concentration emerging on his face, and his tongue moving into his cheek.

He clicked the top toolbar and switched the font to Times New Roman and the size to twelve - there was no way he was going to lose marks over simple mistakes. Right. Here we go.

 

Early life: The first born child of two young, well meaning but inexperienced parents. Mother’s name Sarah; struggling stage actress. Father’s name Toby; small-time jazz musician. Could never quite make ends meet; always fairly poor. Parents deeply in love...

 

No, that’s not right. Writers have traditionally had a horrible family life. Heh, all that research is paying off, thought God.

 

...Parents fought constantly. Mother had short temper, prone to throwing plates, cups and childish tantrums. Never got divorced. Child would live in fear of his....

 

His? Maybe it should be a girl. Girls are always more popular.

 

...fear of her life. Never really fitted in at school, never really tried. Only good at English. When she was seventeen she wrote a poem for a school task. She was told to send it off to a publisher, and the poem appeared in three different compliations.....

A squiggly red line appeared under that last word. God frowned and stared at it.

 

***

 

The office was mostly polished wood, expensive looking stuff. There was a green felt top on the oak desk, and an impressive collection of books took up the entire wall to God’s left. God rubbed his slightly sweaty palms together and surreptitiously shifted in his chair. He was nervous despite himself, and studied Gabriel’s face for any hint of a reaction. Would he like it? Would it be thrown back in his face?

Gabriel evidently wasn’t a very fast reader; this was taking forever. The archangel’s eyes moved over the page slowly, squinting slightly through his hot pink reading glasses. God thought it looked as though he was searching for mistakes. There was no noise in the room, apart from the infernal ticking of the clock on Gabriel's desk, and the occasional low ‘hmm’ emitted from God’s mentor. Finally Gabriel put down the story and looked up, taking off his glasses.

“Well? What do you think?” asked God anxiously.

“It sucks.”

There was a long silence.

“Hah, I’m just kidding mate. I had you going there.” Gabriel laughed.

“Very mature. But what do you really think?” God was eager for an opinion.

“Honestly, I think you’ve got a really good story here. It has a really strong lead character. Some of the parts are really effective. I particularly like the marriage scene...”

God blushed. “Aww, thanks.”

“...but I’m wondering how you’re going to end it. I mean, the ending is always the hardest part to any story. What have you got planned?”

“I’m...I’m not sure.” God hesitated. He hadn’t even thought about it.

How could he have forgotten the death scene?!

Every other famous piece he had ever finished had a powerful, dramatic death scene. Joan of Arc, Julius Caesar...even Hitler for goodness sake. Now that he thought about it, his major works seemed defined by their deaths. It was what set them apart. But what could set this major work apart? It was time to consult the Exemplar texts.

 

***

 

God licked his thumb and forefinger and turned the page of the Bible in his lap. He liked old Moses’ death scene the best of the lot. But unfortunately all of them were pretty clichéd by now. There was nothing he could draw upon, nothing he could do that was original with Death.

Unless....

What if he left it out altogether? What if his major work....didn’t die?

What would happen then? How would she live, knowing her life would continue forever? Would she still do all the normal things humans did? Would she still even be human?

God turned around to his laptop and began typing.

 

 

 

Keeping Yourself Occupied

 

“The British journalist Ian Robinson (29) was shot and killed by Israeli occupation forces in Rafah. He is considered a human casualty expended to maintain the Israeli occupation of Palestine.”

- Al Jazeerah Website 29th November 2003

 

Mrs Lynne Robinson quickly and expertly finished marinating the chicken dish she was preparing at her marble-topped kitchen bench and walked towards the living room, her high heels clacking pleasantly on the tiled kitchen floor. Ignoring the TV blaring in the background, little Alex Robinson used more enthusiasm, but considerably less skill, in his own contribution for the dinner party that night; a wondrous new wooden block castle. He placed the final piece, a bright pink triangle, on the top of the highest tower and sat back awkwardly; admiring his castle with all the pride the three year old could muster. His face lit up when his mother walked into the room.

“Look Mummy! Look what I made!”

“Oh darling that’s beautiful,” said Lynne, moving quickly through the room, adjusting a photo frame fractionally and moving the cushions on the couch.

“I made it for the guests to see,” he said, head nodding seriously.

“Well Alex, I’m sure they would have thought it was beautiful, but I need this room cleared up for tonight, so you’ll have to pack this all up now. The guests will be here soon.”

Alex’s face fell at the news. “But Mummy, I made it for them!”

Lynne frowned, trying hard to conceal her amusement. This could have been a tantrum situation, but she knew the perfect way to appease her son.

“I’m sorry darling, I guess you won’t get to knock it down with your truck then....” She let her voice trail off. Alex’s eyes went wide.

“I’ll move it Mummy, I’ll do it right now!”

And he ran over to his toy box to pick out his favourite toy, a plastic red bulldozer truck with a smiling face on its front. Lynne stifled a laugh as Alex knelt down carefully next to the castle, spending one last solemn moment basking in its splendour. Then there was a spontaneous burst of laughter as he took out his truck and drove it into the building, sending wooden blocks flying in all directions.

 

***

 

Yousif watched as the bulldozer moved slowly across the road and crashed through the grey concrete wall of his house where, only hours before, his children had drawn pale smiling stick figures in coloured chalk. His legs were paralysed, a physical manifestation of his horror. Seeing his own house destroyed, Yousif felt like a huge old tree as it was uprooted. He watched helplessly as something that he had taken shelter in for so long, that protected him from the elements, that he had made a place of safety for his family, was quickly and brutally crushed under the remorseless scoop of a blood-red front-end loader.

 

A large cloud of dust escaped the rubble where the home had once been, moving like a ghost: twenty years of memories. Yousif finally managed to take a deep breath, trying with all his willpower to calm himself. He counted all the things he was grateful for; his wife and children were safe, across on the other side of Rafah; he was alive and healthy; he... He couldn’t think of anything else.

Yelling filled the air about Yousif, jarring him out of his thoughts. Instinctively, he ducked around the corner of a building, out of sight of the bulldozer. He took stock of his situation. He was standing near the corner on one of the arms of a T-intersection, with the remains of his home just around the bend. Two-storey grey buildings squatted like block gargoyles all along the dirty street. A dozen or so young men, and some who were clearly only boys, were running past him. They were yelling, screaming, working themselves into a frenzy. One ran up to him.

“Join the revolt, brother!” he shouted, handing Yousif a rock. Yousif took the rock and could do nothing but stare at it in his hand.

A number of other youths had congregated around him, hiding as he was, hiding from the soldiers. You couldn’t see them, you hardly ever did, but you knew they were there. You could almost feel their presence, like some sort of malevolent being. But Yousif shook that thought out of his mind; they were only men like him. They had families too, although it was hard for him to imagine families living in conditions other than this, this thing. It was all he had ever known.

There was a lot of shouting. Every so often one of the men would shout something, jump around the corner and throw a rock at the bulldozer down the road. Yousif stared at the rock in his hand. There were three deafening shots - they must be so close - and everyone fell to the ground instinctively.

 

***

 

There were three loud knocks at the door of the Robinson household, the distinctive signature of Dr Northby, a family friend with a thin moustache and a big smile. Lynne checked her hair in a nearby mirror, and then answered the door.

“Hello Michael! How are you?” she smiled.

“Ah, good evening Lynne. I’m great thankyou, and I must say, you look stunning tonight,” said Dr Northby, pecking her on the cheek. They both smiled and Lynne moved aside to let the doctor in. He walked into the living room and was met by Alex, standing upright, hands behind his back in newly washed clothes with an attempted dignified look on his face. The doctor smiled.

“I’ll be with you in a minute Michael; just putting the finishing touches to the dinner,” called Lynne, as she walked into the kitchen.

“Take your time,” he called back, then turned his attention to the boy in front of him. “And good evening to you too, young man.” They shook hands, very seriously.

“How are you, Alex?”

“Very-well-thank-you-and-how-are-you?” recited Alex.

“I’m doing very well too. Have you been helping your mother today?”

“Yes, I built a-” began Alex, but then thought better of it. He tried to think of something else grown ups might talk about. “My Daddy’s away in Palacetime” he blurted, unintentionally catching the doctor off guard. The older man frowned for a moment. “And what’s he doing there?”

Alex thought for a moment. “He makes the news on the TV.”

“Ahh, I see. He has a very important job.”

“Yeah,” agreed Alex.

Lynne smiled in the dining room, overhearing the conversation while setting the table. She checked her gold watch - the other guests were due any minute. Time to finish up here. She took out her favourite decorations; two former wine bottles with candles melted into them. She lit them both, and stood for a moment, admiring their elegant beauty.

 

***

 

Yousif carefully held the green beer bottle, now filled with petrol. The man next to him lit the piece of fabric poking out the end, torn from his own clothing. After it ignited, the other man grabbed it hurriedly, poked his head around the corner, then flung the cocktail as hard as he could down the road. Yousif couldn’t see it, but he heard the sound of glass shattering, then a light whumph sound, followed by lots of shouting and screaming. They both smiled, somewhat unconvincingly, thought Yousif.

Then came more shots.

Both of them fell flat against the ground. Yousif could feel the filthy concrete against his cheek, scratching at his skin. He heard a scraping noise to his left. It was another man crawling over to them, Western looking in face and clothing. He was carrying a camera. A strange mixed brew of smells wafted through the air around them, a faint sensation of gunpowder combining with the choking wispy grey smoke, which seemed to be almost commonplace recently.

The Western man kept checking his camera, then pointing it all around him and clicking continually. With every gunshot, the man flinched. Yousif smiled grimly; the Westerner was obviously not used to situations like this one.

Presently, there was a lull in the gun fire, and all three men scrambled to a crouching position. Anxiously the Westerner looked around, pointed to his camera and then to Yousif. Yousif hesitated, vaguely distrustful, but nodded. The Westerner took his photo and gave an incongruous smile of thanks. Suddenly, another shot rang out, and the man with the camera fell onto the ground. His camera smashed, sending pieces skidding in all directions.

Yousif and the other Palestinian crawled over to him, and took him up in their arms. He was coughing feebly and trying to say something in English.

“Doctor.....doctor.....”

They couldn’t understand him. They took off his outer jacket, and found a huge blood-soaked patch of shirt. Yousif tried to apply pressure to the wound, placing both hands over the patch but all three knew it was useless. The man gasped and went limp in their arms. They lay him down slowly, and Yousif shut his eyes so he didn’t have to see the dark blood seep across the ground in front of him.

 

***

 

There was a burst of laughter at the Robinson dinner party, as one of the guests had spilt the wine and a large red patch was seeping through the lovely white table cloth. Lynne ran to get the salt and a paper towel. The culprit fired off a volley of apologies, and the Doctor remarked that he knew of no cure for clumsiness.

 

 

 

 

Hickery Dickery Dare

 

 

Stephanie held open the door for the three children to walk out of the house and onto the drive-way to their left. She carefully closed the door behind her, facing it to hide a smile at Catherine singing a rhyme.

Hickery dickery dare

the lion flew into the air

he started to frown, fell back down

because he was much too scared!

Catherine giggled as she finished, and stopped walking for a moment to adjust her grip of two large dolls she carried, one under each arm. She wasn’t quite big enough to carry both of them comfortably. Alexander smiled and added the odd hummed note, but wasn’t old enough to sing the rhyme properly.

And Isaac, recently turned thirteen, was much too old to even consider singing such a ‘child’s game’ as he would have said. So instead, he carried with him his birthday present, a brand new shiny cricket bat, all the way from London, made with the finest willow. He almost couldn’t bring himself to hit a ball with this bat, such was his love of it. Almost.

Little Alexander walked for a while ahead with his two siblings, but grew tired of this show of independence and fell back to the safety of Stephanie, taking her hand quietly.

She was walking the children to the oval to play, taking care of them while their mother went into town to attend to some business. As they walked slowly in the late afternoon sun, they had to pass the old cathedral, located between their house and the oval. The old, grey-stone building with needle-sharp spires and dark windows cast long black shadows out across the surrounding lawns. All four of them quietened noticeably as they walked past, shooting furtive glances at the building to their left, and then back to the ground in front of them. Stephanie tried to break the silence.

“What games shall we play today?” she said, a little too loud.

“Will you bowl the ball to me, Stephanie?” asked Isaac.

“Of course. What about you Catherine?” But Catherine was off in her own little world, speaking to her dolls under her breath, reassuring them. Alexander just stared up into Stephanie's eyes, as if he was looking for something.

Stephanie shivered, and they walked on.

A half-hour later, they were still at the oval, and the afternoon had grown so late that the clouds were constantly changing to colours that didn't seem befitting. Stephanie threw the ball underarm across to Isaac, who expertly deflected the ball to his right, sending Alexander sprinting off after it as fast as his little legs would carry him. Catherine sat a little way off to their left, sitting properly as her mother had taught her, legs tucked under her and to one side. She wore a white and blue pinafore that made her appear slightly younger than she was, an effect which was enhanced by the long pink ribbon which adorned her hair. As she moved the dolls around her, indicating they were moving ‘houses’, Catherine would put on different voices to suit the different dolls.

“Would you like some tea while you watch the cricket, Miss Brown? Why, I would love some, Miss Evans.” Stephanie smiled at her, remembering how she too had once been that age, and maybe not all that long ago.

 

Presently, Alexander brought the ball back, and placed it triumphantly in Stephanie’s hand.

“Thank you sir,” she said, curtseying slightly. She took aim again at Isaac, and threw it to him, underarm. He was, however, too well prepared for it, and struck the ball in the middle of the bat, sending it flying through the air, over towards the cathedral.

All four of them stopped and stared at the ball as it seemed to sail in slow motion towards the old church. There was an awful crash of shattering glass as the ball smashed a small hole in a window on the western facing wall. The sound seemed to break all their spirits, and Alexander’s shoulders fell visibly.

There was a long pause where no one said anything.

“I’m.....sorry Stephanie,” managed Isaac, snapping her out of her trance.

“Oh, that’s alright,” she said, acting happier than she really felt. “No one uses that old church anymore. It’s just gathering dust. No one will mind if there’s a window broken. I’ll just go and get it then, shall I?”

“No! Don’t....” said Isaac suddenly.

“What?”

“I mean, I have lots of other balls at home. That one was too old anyway.”

“It was brand new Isaac!”

Isaac looked thoroughly uncomfortable.

“Mother says we’re not allowed to go into the cathedral,” said Catherine matter of factly, without looking up from her game.

Stephanie hesitated before replying, “Why is that?”

Isaac shot Catherine a look, and they both remained silent. Alexander’s eyes went wide however, and he shot his arms out around him to emphasise his point. “Ghost!” he shouted.

No one said anything.

“There’s no ghost, Alexander. It’s just a silly story,” said Isaac finally. Alexander looked as if he had been betrayed.

“Mr Carrick says there’s a ghost,” said Catherine, referring to the old gardener who worked at the children’s house.

“He’s just trying to scare you, Cathy.” Isaac turned to Stephanie, “There’s no ghost, is there? You don’t believe in ghosts,” he hesitated, “do you?”

Stephanie caught herself thinking about the question. “No. No, of course not. There’s no ghost. Now, I’m going to get the ball, and if any of you would like to come with me, then you are most welcome.”

Isaac seemed to gain a little courage from this. “Well, I’ll come too,” he said.

Catherine laughed faintly, again without looking up. It was a child’s laugh, but to Stephanie there seemed to be a barely discernible element of malice there. She shrugged it off, turning to look at Alexander. His mouth was wide with fear.

“No! Stepharie, ghost!” he said firmly. Stephanie shook her head.

“No, no, there’s no ghost. Come along now boys,” she said, struggling to veil her apprehension with a weak smile.

She began to walk towards the large, wooden double doors of the Cathedral. Isaac fell into step, slightly behind her. Alexander moved in front of her and tried to block her path, his cries becoming more anguished.

“No! No, Stepharie, ghost! Ghost!” Stephanie could only manage a poor reassurance that she herself had little confidence in. “Come on now, let’s go.”

They began to walk again, going past Catherine.

“Catherine, you wait here all right? We’ll be back in a minute. Don’t go anywhere.”

But Catherine didn’t seem to hear her; she didn’t react at all. Instead she just kept singing in a low voice.

“Hickery dickery dare,

the lion flew into the air...”

Stephanie turned and walked away, but before they’d gone more than a few steps, they heard Catherine speak.

“You’ll never come back, you know.”

Stephanie couldn’t help but freeze again, but she forced herself to ignore the comment. They walked slowly up towards the big double doors, stopping at the edge of the cobblestone steps. The huge cathedral reared up before them like some evil grey sentinel. The clouds above them provided a swirling grey canvas on which the hard sharp stone of the Cathedral was painted. As Stephanie peered up at the building in front of her, it seemed to grow in size before her eyes, becoming taller, wider and sort of....darker, she thought. They can’t be right; something is wrong here...

“Are we going to go in, Steph?” said Isaac, snapping her back into the present.

“No, ghost!”

“Yes, we’re going in. Come on.”

Stephanie took one step up onto the stone and felt a distinct cold shiver wrack her body. Alexander reacted immediately, grabbing onto her hand and tearing her away from the door with all his strength.

“No! Stepharie, no! Ghost! Ghost! NO!” He began to scream and cry and wrench at Stephanie’s arm with a strength born of fear. She couldn’t do anything but walk on, up to the door, with Alexander becoming more and more hysterical, clawing at her dress. His face was bright red, tears streaming down it, soaking his shirt.

“NO! No no no no no! Stepharie, Stepharie...” he began to plead violently. Isaac tried to comfort him, but Alexander simply screamed louder. “Ghost! Ghost!”.

Finally, Stephanie reached up and touched the cold iron door-handle, and pushed the huge old doors open. Instantly, Alexander fell completely silent and totally motionless. All three stared into the vast, sombre, chilly interior of the cathedral.

Long dark wooden pews filled the place like thick black worms, rolling together to smother whatever poor creature lay underneath. The only light was provided by the elegant stained glass windows to their right, and a few isolated red candles at the front on the altar. All around the walls hung large carvings of barely recognisable apostles. Under this strange light, the looming, mournful faces of saints seemed misshapen and grotesque. The whole place was unnaturally cold. The heavy damp air blew out to bite them.

Alexander let out one quiet piteous sob.

Stephanie stood frozen still for the longest time, before she finally managed to walk the first few steps inside. She was walking excruciatingly slowly, gently, as if her normal pace would awaken something better left undisturbed. As she walked, she looked up ahead of her at the giant central stained glass window behind the altar. It was massive in size, taking up the entire back wall with a swarm of crying, screaming people gathered around a man on a cross, whose expression of extreme anguish seemed to be caused by his location within this cathedral. The tainted rays of coloured light that struggled through the window illuminated the stone altar through hovering dust motes. A dank, musty smell pervaded the cathedral.

Stephanie realised that she was now halfway down the central aisle, and that Isaac and Alexander were creeping along behind her. The younger boy very carefully reached up and took Stephanie’s hand.

Suddenly Isaac stopped and tugged gently at Stephanie’s dress and pointed directly to their left, without a sound. He was pointing at the smashed glass window, a small angular break in the glass which allowed a tantalising glimpse of the outside world. Stephanie turned and edged her way down the pew sideways, looking carefully for the missing cricket ball.

 

 

 

 

Vampires for Dummies

 

Well, here we go again. Same old story eh? Oh, the poor poor girl and the two little boys, walking helplessly into the abode of the big bad wolf. This is the part where I’m supposed to jump down and snuff out their pathetic existence, right? I bet you think I’d derive some sick sadistic pleasure from that, hmm?

Well, too bad. Because I’m not like your stereotypical...huh...vampire, as you people like to call us. You have no idea how offensive that name is! We much prefer to be called the mortality challenged.

Oh, you humans think you’re so smart; you think you know everything there is to know about us. Well, you’re wrong. Right now, you know nothing about us.

 

But I’m going to change all that. I am going to set the record straight, once and for all. I am going to give you a first hand look at how we really live...or don’t live, rather. I’m going to make you an instant expert in vampirism. I’ll grant you an interview with a vampire, as it were. And don’t even think about talking to me about that movie. I’ve seen it, and I’ve never laughed so hard in all my existence. Although I do like to think I look a little like Tom Cruise...

 

Anyway, first things first. Introductions. Names. Such silly things, don’t you think? You humans need little identification tags on everything, so you can feel all nice and safe and secure. Well, fine, I’ll humour you. My name is Henry.

What? Surprised? I know, I bet you thought we supernaturals all had ridiculously long foreign names, all designed to strike fear into the hearts of mortals. Well, there’s your first lesson. We don’t. Imagine trying to meet people at a party with a name like count vladimir von beekerhoven the red. Honestly! Where do you people come up with these things?

 

Appearance

Let me guess! You probably think we all look like The Count from “Sesame Street” right? Sorry to burst your bubble, but no, we don’t all go around counting to three and laughing evilly.

So what do we look like? Stereotypically, you think of Vampires as tall, pale skinned, dressed in black, with big, sharp, pointy teeth. Allow me to address each of these silly little myths one by one.

We do have a tendency towards black clothing, I’ll grant you (except of course, for the infamous pink vampires of Northern Africa). This is simply common sense though, as we’ve been hunted the world over for centuries, and the black helps us to remain unseen. You’d want the same thing if you were being chased by a hundred angry villagers with pitchforks.

And, of course, the teeth. For the most part, they are quite long. They had to be, you understand. These days however, you’ll find that blood transfusions are a much safer and easier way of getting our required nutrients, so in the long term those teeth will probably become obsolete and be removed via evolution.

 

 

 

 

Origins

We vampires are quite the historians. Bet you didn’t know that eh? Well, why wouldn’t we be, with a glorious history like ours? I can trace my lineage right back, approximately eight thousand years. I’d like to see YOU do that. I bet you can’t trace back any further than your last MSM or whatever the hell it’s called. The reason for this unparalleled knowledge is the simple fact that we are immortal and therefore live a very, very long time. I myself became a vampire three hundred and sixteen years ago. Did I mention we also have impeccable memories?

But as to where vampires actually originated, that is a little more difficult to say. One theory - to which I subscribe - is that we simply evolved from nature. All throughout history, species which prey on lesser creatures have always evolved successfully. It is clear that we are just a more highly evolved race of predators. Heh, makes you feel a little vulnerable, doesn't it?

Of course, there is another theory that states that we are simply made-up imaginary creatures within fictious stories. But then, we both know how ridiculous that is, don’t we?

 

Lifestyle

Ahh yes, a vampires’ life is good indeed. The only downside of course is the unfortunate need to live relatively close to humans for feeding, but that can be overlooked I suppose, or put down to necessity.

It is true that we live mostly solitary lives. Vampires who meet tend to become unhealthily competitive, which is understandable knowing our...how shall I put it... our accurate knowledge of our considerable abilities and talents. Thus, we tend to seek out places that are closeby to a ready supply of humans, yet don’t attract many visitors. This can make finding the right place difficult. Subsequently, vampires rarely move, instead choosing to maintain an almost static location within our world. This means we can settle down and really get to know places, and it has the added benefit of never having to talk to real estate agents.

 

Death

‘Here we go,’ I can hear you say, ‘this is where I learn how to have old Henry here whacked.’ Well, that’s so typical of you humans. Anything you can’t understand, you kill. Perhaps you believe that death is some sort of rubbish bin for all your uncertainties. And you most definitely have a lot of those.

Well, I suppose I’m not going to stop you. Much as I dislike your methods, style and general hygiene, I wouldn’t mind at all if you knocked off a few other vampires for me, to thin out the competition. Very well then. Let us take a look at how to kill a vampire, one myth at a time. As I already stated, we are immortal and thus never die from any natural causes (however, we are rather susceptible to getting a cold every now and again, and you don’t ever want to see such a sorry sight as a vampire with chicken pox). So, if you want us to die, you’ll have to kill us using one of your oh-so-famous and well publicised methods.

Firstly, the old ‘stake through the heart’. I’ve often heard it said, with much wonder and amazement, that sticking a pointed wooden stake into a vampires heart and nailing it through his/her chest will cause death. Well, it’s true. But don’t go getting all amazed and arrogant. If I was to stick a giant wooden nail through your rib cage, you’d be in a spot of bother too!

Secondly, the old garlic thing. Yes, it’s true, we do have a slight allergy to it. That’s all though. Well, that and cod liver oil. And horseradish. And cats. I hate cats.

Thirdly, the sunlight issue. Now I’m going to say this once only. Vampires do not die if subjected to sunlight. Frankly, I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in all my afterlife. I once knew a vampire who got a melanoma on his ear after spending the day at the beach, but that’s as bad as I’ve heard.

 

Conclusion

So, I hope you’ve enjoyed our little talk together. I suppose I had better jump down in front of these three unfortunate little people here and scare them off. I’m not very hungry at the moment. So if you were thinking that I was going to sneak up behind them, spread my cape and roar, then kill them in a suitably gruesome manner, you were wrong. And now you know much better, don’t you?

 

 

About the Author

Henry is a three hundred and sixteen year old vampire currently living in Melbourne, Australia. His hobbies include classical music and stamp collecting. His essay, “Vampires and The Inner Search for Meaning”, won the inaugural Nobel Prize for Vampiric Literature. He has written three books, and is currently in the process of writing his autobiography.

 

 

 

 

 

First Impressions, Last

There was a strange sense of calm about the early morning light filtering through the low clouds, a calmness that was indefinable, almost ethereal. It was raining lightly, with that cool, soft atmosphere that only a very early morning walk can create, hanging over the boy as he staggered aimlessly along the footpath. The suburban labyrinth that surrounded him seemed to be coated with lush green everywhere, trees and plants and grass, so that if you were looking at it from far away, you might think it a jumble of old grey stones, covered in moss.

He’d been walking for a long time. By now, his ragged jeans and old dirty flannelette over-shirt were damp with morning dew and an entire night’s worth of sweat. He smiled.

What seemed like only moments ago was in reality more than an hour back. He had finally stopped running. It was more from necessity than will; if he’d kept that pace his lungs may have given way. He’d been running along a footpath, and before that through a series of suburban backyards. The boy had found, through hard experience, that backyards are a fantastically easy way to move about in this kind of housing area. He had been running over a well-mown patch of grass, before that recovering, and before that an impressive leap had taken him over a corrugated iron fence. Occasionally he would stop, duck behind a shed and catch his breath. Sometimes he could hear the sirens. Once he even heard a cop’s voice from over the fence he was pressed up against. Couldn’t have been more than two metres away, he’d thought. Suckers. He smiled.

Previously, the situation was a little less calm. Kids were spraying in all directions, running from the trashed house like a drunken teenage champagne explosion. The boy had jumped the back fence straight away, after sprinting out the back door from his lair in the main lounge room. He noticed on his way out that the girl still wasn’t moving on the floor, despite the alarm of “Cops!” that had gone up moments earlier.

Minutes beforehand, he’d been talking to a friend of his, Aaron, who had been saying what a ‘freaking sick’ party it was, and how it was all thanks to the boy. “Nice work man; your stuff made this gig.”

And he was right. The party had been going well, aside from a few slip ups. There’d been people from all over town, from half a dozen different schools, and everyone was having fun. If you watched them from a slightly raised vantage point, then their jumping and swaying began to look like rolling waves on the ocean. A thick sweaty mass of slow aqueous movement. Time slowed down. He would occasionally catch someone's eye, and there would be an almost subliminal nod of recognition between them, a gesture imperceptible and meaningless to anyone who wasn’t of their select group.

At one point, a herd of people had formed a circle. Drawn to the group by animal instinct, the boy had joined them in their gawping at an unmoving body sprawled face down on the polished wooden floor. She had been wearing a red top and a short denim skirt, with a bright pink plastic peace symbol hanging on a chain from her waist. The boy struggled to catch a glimpse of her through all the crowd. He didn’t think he knew her, so it was okay to laugh a little bit. A group of people began to circle around her like a halo - or a noose - laughing and jeering.

“She’s not gunna be happy in the morning!” somebody yelled. Echoing laughter.

Someone mock-punched the boy in his shoulder. “Hey, she was on your shit man.”

The boy turned to see a vaguely familiar face beside him. He grinned back stupidly. “Told ya it was the good stuff.” He smiled.

Three hours earlier, the boy had been part of what must have looked like a clown act, with eight people scrambling out from the back seat of the car outside a large white house. He’d been carrying a small backpack full of his precious white product. A deep, thundering noise that could have been mistaken for music oozed out of the building, as dozens of teenagers flooded into it. It was as if they were attracted by some potent scent, lured by some unseen pheromone that could only be detected by those of a particular age group.

His friends had picked him up from outside an ugly grey block of flats. The boy had been inside number six - not his house.

He didn’t even know the name of the owner. But it’s not as if that mattered. What mattered was that this was the unstable looking man who sold him the pills. He’d appear on the other side of a screen door, covered in grime, tattoos and a singlet, asking only a small fee, plus a percentage of every sale, and the rest was profit for the boy. It was a sweet little deal, really. He smiled.

The boy had never tried the stuff himself. Just in case. He always told his trusting customers that he had many times, and that it was perfectly safe. On the surface, he really believed that. But deep down, somewhere inside that he hated to acknowledge, a voice softly told him it wasn’t true.

Before his arrival at the intimidating flats, the boy had walked four blocks from his house, where he had been in his sister’s room, lying belly down on her bed, watching her put on makeup.

The room didn’t seem to actually have proper wood and plaster walls; instead it appeared to be constructed out of a collage of posters, photos, song lyrics and mirrors. A piece of furniture or two and one large window that showed a perfect square of the bright sunny afternoon outside completed the picture.

Kate was applying something to around the rims of her eyes with a little black pencil; the boy didn’t know the right name for it. He watched her as she leaned toward the mirror, tilting her head slightly to her right as she applied the make-up. She seemed to grow older right in front of his eyes.

They were talking about a different party she was attending that night. Kate was a full year younger than the boy, and that year made all the difference.

“Make sure you have fun at your do, big brother,” she had said, turning and poking him in the side playfully.

“Oh I will,” he laughed.

“You’re a fashion expert,” she said. “What do you think of my outfit?”

“Love it,” he said without pause. “Especially this,” he said, pointing to a pink plastic peace sign hanging from a chain around her waist.

 

 

 

 

 

Eulogy

My Dear Readers,

 

We are gathered here today to celebrate the life of this Major Work, that was so recently and cruelly taken from us. At times like these it is easy to focus on the loss and the pain. True, we will never again see a group of stories like these; true, I will no longer be able to labour over this Major Work, and true, there will be a gaping hole in my life, a hole that these stories filled for a long time.

However, to focus on these aspects is to sell this Major Work short, because, for those of us who knew her well, we knew this Major Work was a rose among the thorns. Unlike her author, she never complained, never worried, never became down-trodden when literary life threw problems her way. This Major Work had no enemies, and reached out to all who read her. Without belittling the skills of the people who contributed to this Major Work, it is undoubted that the Work’s fighting spirit and determination to live on were the reasons she was able to make the word count. She never threw in the towel, and her composure was maintained to the bitter end, even to the night before she left us.

Let us not then, dear friends, linger upon the hours of hard work and many sleepless nights that went into this Major Work. Let us instead remember her as a decent, hard-working, warm-hearted Major Work who was loved by all who read her.

We know she would have wanted it that way.

[Jechum]

Jechum floats in applauds and floats out...