A Little Boy Impressed
“How long have you been twenty-one?”
No one has ever asked that before.
It amused me,
this little boy unveiling my secret.
“I’m Cornelius,” I tell him, “And I’ve been
twenty-one for over five hundred years.”
The boy is not impressed. I remember when
children were impressed with sticks and stones.
“Are you like Dracula?
You don’t wear a cape.”
Dracula is a fairy tale.
The only fairy tale I believe is me.
“Do you drink blood?”
I do not answer the question.
Why should I? He’s just a boy.
And I am more than human.
I don’t allow him to speak again.
With immortal grace
the boy is dead.
I wonder if he is impressed now.
A Sense of Feelings
“There is nothing different here,”
I whisper to myself
staring at my night’s fifth.
“She was just another meal.”
None of them are impressed.
I should know that by now.
Last night a boy asked questions.
Tonight the woman begged at my feet.
“There is nothing different here,”
I whisper again. Is it true? I don’t know.
The woman says nothing.
She shouldn’t. She’s dead, but so am I.
I seek revenge against religion.
The Holy Spirit touches me differently.
I turn to dust upon death.
Who am I?
Running footfalls make me turn
to see a man dashing away.
I don’t think.
Number six lies dead at my feet.
“Please let this work,” I murmur over the unconscious beauty.
Am I dark enough to do this?
I never have before. Making one of my kind is risky.
Myth says it only takes a bite. “That would be too easy.”
We both have to bleed and drink, like a ritual.
I was confused about that. Beauty was unconscious.
I sat on top of the deceased Billy Hennessey.
Only us three in the graveyard. “I shouldn’t have done this.”
I felt like the boy two nights ago,
too many questions running through my mind
with no end in sight.
Maybe she wasn’t the answer to my problems.
Faint laughter stabs the night.
Am I really a fairy tale,
the nightmare in the dark
scaring people from slumber?
Beauty moans and slowly opens her bloodshot eyes.
“Do it,” she breathes. A demand.
She knows. I can see it in her eyes. Death is near.
Does she know what she’ll become?
“Don’t you love it Cornelius?” I asked him.
Everything seemed new, now that I was new.
A woman came towards me.
She smelled good. Like copper and tangy honey.
“Rosemary,” Cornelius whispered,
my name spraying from his lips.
“You can have your pick of anyone here. It’s your birthday.”
Turning, I kissed him. He tasted of dirt and grass.
I hope to never forget that wonderful smell and taste?
Confined in the dark. It had been cold. I had been trapped.
Digging from my grave made my hands bleed.
My body heat would remain cold. I would smell forevermore.
My first meal increased those thoughts.
She was delicious. Tasted sweet. All happy meals did
if I ignored the copper. Like putting pennies in my mouth.
The hectic street was packed full of morsels.
It was Sunday. Church was starting.
The bell was ringing. We clasped hands and smiled.
“The lord giveth to all those in need.”
As one we walked under the cross into the church.
Better This Way
The building had fallen down.
We were really that good. We were really that distracted.
Cornelius had never bragged before. There never seemed to be reason.
Tonight was our first time.
Last night was about finding a feast.
This was the only rule Cornelius had explained.
The feast of churchgoers last night distracted us,
as well as another activity just as pleasant.
I don’t wish to wake him. I touched his cheek. He opened his eyes.
I whispered, “That was the best night of my unlife.”
He growled and looked at his sun soaked pants.
“I know how we could pass the time,” I told him.
It was rough and hard and fast. Not as magnificent as the first time.
This disappointed me.
The building was in shambles.
The blocks of cement had been ground to powder.
It didn’t matter.
What mattered was how disappointing he’d turned out to be.
There was only one thing to do.
At my hands Cornelius fell into the sunlight.
The Guilty at Work
Black, sooty ashes
tumbling in the wind.
The sunlight had lit my undead lover
like a Fourth of July celebration.
“Twelve hours ‘til sundown,” I muttered.
The groan in my belly told me I was hungry.
I tested the sun’s rays. My hand caught fire.
“Guess I really am trapped.”
Killing Cornelius hadn’t been a good idea.
I didn’t know how to survive.
I looked around and saw black silk curtains.
“Lets see how strong I really am.”
Tearing them down with my teeth and fangs
to make myself look Transylvanian was simple.
The last rays of sunlight were finishing the horizon.
“There. A true queen of the dead.”
I put on my new cape and stepped forward
to feast on the world. Darkness surrounded me.
Someone incredibly strong grabbed me from behind.
I struggled all the way into the sunlight.
The cape was in place. The white makeup covered my face.
Plastic, pointy fangs would have
glistened if they weren’t a movie replica.
I had a destiny to fulfill.
“Matthew Whittaker.” A voice called out.
We were dressed similar, but something about him seemed off.
“You need to come with me.”
His voice was so musical bells rang in my head.
His makeup was pale blue.
His cape only reached to his back.
His fangs looked better than mine,
reflecting off yellow moonlight.
“I answer to only Vlad the Impalor.”
The Living Undead Society was becoming lax in its admissions.
His voice, a beacon for me to follow.
Bells rang in my head again.
In an alley he removed his cape and makeup.
Bells rang and I removed mine.
A soothing ache at my jugular made me miss
ashes blowing in the wind.
A Drunken Walk
Why did the bartender
have to take his damn keys?
Why do I have to be the one
to walk the guy home?
“Watch where you’re going loser,”
A man on the street tells us.
Agreeing with a stranger, an abnormal event.
Driving him with anger seemed the superior option.
Is there a reason nobody
else could do this?
I’ve known the bum only a few days.
Dave has known him longer.
“What are you doing freak?”
His name no longer matters.
The bum’s leaning over me.
I hope he’s not gay.
Unpleasant lips do not meet my throat.
Opening my eyes,
I see a blonde walking away with
ashes swirling around her.
The Final Legacy of the Hunter
Being hunted is not pleasant.
I should know. I once was. By one of them.
The Nightwalkers. The Death Dealers. The Undead.
I didn’t want anyone else to go through that.
Some of them think themselves wannabes.
My blond hair and bright clothes
outshines the darkness penetrating their soulless vessels.
How can these creatures stalk the earth?
Rescuing the Goth vampire wannabe
and the drunk, I played victim,
begging for more to show up.
No place else to go at night.
Battling for my life. Five at once.
Didn’t know who would win or lose.
Death is such an easy thing to think about
when a person has nothing left.
They’ll all die. I’ll take them all.
My family is dead. I have nothing left.
The wood in my hand is comforting.
I don’t see the monster until it’s too late.