Creative Writing, Fiction, short short story, short story

Fiction: My Date With a Vampire

My first date with a nonhuman went as well as can be expected. Not that I was expecting much from it anyway. Okay, maybe I was. I was expecting fangs and drips of blood pouring down his cheek like he was a real-life Dracula. I mean, isn’t that what everyone expects when they hear vampire? But he wasn’t that at all. I didn’t expect that he would look so normal. Okay, he didn’t look normal. He was better than normal with light brown hair that fell against his tan skin like feathers, hitting just above the dark eye brows that made his eyes seem like emeralds. Vampire or not, that man was perfect.

You’re probably wondering why it is that I went on a date with a vampire in the first place, especially if I was expecting him to look like Dracula. Well, I don’t have an answer for you. All I can say for myself is that some of the movie representations of Dracula are quite sexy and then there’s the whole Twilight fad and, well, I couldn’t resist. I just had to know what it was like to go on a date with a vampire, what it was like to go on a date with a nonhuman.

Yes, I said it. I wanted to date a nonhuman. I was getting bored of all the human men blowing me off for video games and football games. Surely vampires didn’t care about such things. They would have mature and sophisticated interests, something to match their age. In that respect, my expectations weren’t too far off base. Tyler the vampire (I can’t help it if he made the alliteration himself) had no interest in video games and even less interest in sports. I’m not even sure he knew what a football was. He was more interested in books that could teach him something new, he had told me over dinner at a restaurant with white tablecloths.

Before you ask, no he hasn’t read Twilight. When I brought it up, his dark brows crinkled and he asked what the book was and, more importantly, if it would teach him something new. I smiled and said it might. I didn’t want to be the person to tell him that it was about sparkly vampires and how a human girl brings them together with the werewolves they had always hated. Maybe he would think I wanted to be like Bella or something –that I wanted to be the human that made Tyler the vampire risk everything just for love.

“It’s also a movie,” I added. His nose just wrinkled in response as he let the silence overcome us again. To be fair, Tyler the vampire had told me before he asked me out on the dating sight where his picture was conspicuously absent, that it had been awhile since he had been out on a date. Maybe the silence was because he was nervous. Worse yet, maybe the silence was because I was nervous under the surveillance of his green eyes that seemed to grow wider and wider each time I cut into my steak. I guess I should have ordered well done. Maybe I shouldn’t have ordered anything at all considering he hadn’t. I was beginning to think this date may have been a bad idea after all.

“Not that I like movies or anything,” I added, staring at the pool of red forming around my steak. It didn’t matter what I said though, there was no saving this date once Tyler the vampire reached across the table and drank the blood right off of my plate. There was no unseeing that, no matter how attractive he was. If he wanted food, he should have ordered his own.

Creative Writing, Poetry

Poetry: My Pumpkin Spice Latte

You are my pumpkin-spice latte,

my reminder of fall,

of brisk days, kicking up leaves

and late nights by a bonfire

on a beach of partiers,

wrapped in your hoodie,

my warm safety net,

as I inhale your spice

and taste the sweetness

on your ever-convenient lips,

as I fall back under your spell

that gets me through the winter.

Creative Writing, Fiction, short short story

Fiction: Emily is Dead

If I could do it all over again, I probably would have picked out my new hair color before I faked my own death. That way, I could just dye my hair right after instead of having to sneak into stores with every inch of me covered as if that would keep people from staring. If I looked half as ridiculous as I felt, I couldn’t blame them. I just took comfort in the fact that there was no way anyone would recognize me as the woman on the news whose car was found abandoned in the lake –the woman whose body they were still looking for. My chin wasn’t distinct enough for recognition and my wooly black hat and pink-framed sunglasses would keep them from getting a good look at any of my more recognizable features. That’s at least what I told myself in an attempt to steady my breathing as I snatched up the last box of black dye and headed to the counter.

I handed exact change to the cashier who was too distracted by my shaking hands to realize that I was the woman on the tiny TV screen next to him. “Have a nice day,” he said as I grabbed the box off of the counter.

I tried to express my thanks in a smile but my lips just formed a straight line. I hurried out of there, stopping only to shove the box into the pocket of my red sweat pants. I don’t know why I chose red sweat pants as the outfit that I wanted to run away in. At the time, it seemed like a good idea. I was trying as hard as I could to differentiate myself from the Prada wearing redhead on the screen and these sweats seemed to be the way to do just that. Now I wondered if I was drawing too much attention to myself. Maybe my wardrobe would lead to my demise. Or at least my second demise. Either way, my current outfit had the potential to ruin everything.

“Miss! Excuse me, miss! Wait!”

Someone must have figured out who I am. Run. No. They’re probably not even talking to me. Run anyway. No, just turn around. Act like nothing is wrong. Nothing is wrong. Nothing at all. I could hear the footsteps pounding on the pavement as the voice made its way closer to me. It was too late now. I had to talk to him.

I took a deep breath and turned around just as a man came to a stop in front of me. He glanced down at his hand before extending his arm towards me with a closed fist. “You dropped this, Emily.”

I took a step back. How did this man know my name? Was this the end of everything? Would I have to return to my house, to my life, to my husband? I couldn’t go back there. I just couldn’t. The man bounced his fist in the air and I knew he wasn’t going to leave until I had taken the object from him. I held out my open hand and a warm chain was dropped into my palm. Now I knew exactly how he knew my name.

I stared at the silver bracelet, taking in the engraving I had forgotten about over the years: I love you, Emily. It had been a long time since I had seen those words paired with my name. I almost hadn’t brought the bracelet with me at all. I was going to leave it in my car at the lake where it would sink like the rest of my past. I changed my mind at the last minute though. If times got tough down the road, I would be able to pawn it somewhere. If I could build a better life for myself, as I hoped to do, I would always have this bracelet as a reminder of what I had overcome.

A tear rolled down my cheek and I reached up to wipe it away. I was never one to cry in front of strangers and even this shell of who I was as I waited to form my new identity wasn’t pleased with the idea of crying in public. I ran my fingers swiftly across my cheek, grazing my sunglasses enough to knock them off of my face. The man picked the pink plastic up off the ground, handing the glasses back to me.

“Hey, you look a lot like that woman on the news. The one who died in that accident at the lake.”

“Well, I’m not her,” I said, snatching the sunglasses from him. I tried to compose myself, but the man continued.

“Her name was Emily, too.” He stared at me and I could tell that he was putting together the pieces in his mind. Any minute, he would have all the proof he needed to inform the world that I was very much alive. It wouldn’t even be the sweatpants that did me in. The bracelet would be to blame.

“Thanks for all your help,” I said, putting the sunglasses back on. Before he could say anything else, I turned around and ran. I couldn’t let my past ruin my future.

I kept running, expecting any moment to hear the man’s voice crying out that I was alive. Any moment I would be stopped and taken back to the very place I was trying to avoid. That didn’t happen though. My name was not uttered by anyone as I ran into a 7-11. I headed straight to the bathroom and locked the door. No one would expect to find someone like me in a place like this.

A few hours later, I was ready to leave. I took one last look in the mirror and made eye contact with someone even I didn’t recognize. I grabbed my belongings off the ground, shoving my remaining cash in the pockets of my new jeans with the bracelet, and left to start my new life. The door slammed behind me as I left my disguise in a pile on the floor with the pink sunglasses perched on top like a cherry on a sundae. Every thud of my boots on the tile seemed to say the same thing: Emily is dead. Emily is dead. Emily is dead.

I smiled and kept walking.

Emily is dead.

Creative Writing, Poetry

Poetry: For you–

What I can never be:

the “I love you” that lies in your arms at bed time,

the fire that warms your home,

the echo to your “It’s Monday” groan,

the perfume on your pillow,

the smile on your face,

the reason you rush home from work every day,

the hand you hold when you are lost,

the heart you kiss,

the words needed to remember your coffee,

the fashion consultant you need come laundry day,

the breakfast of champions,

the sweetest alarm clock,

the quietest “I love you,”

and the bravest hello.

What I can always be:

the reminder that you are loved,

the words that warm your soul through the paper,

the distant companion to your “It’s Monday” groan,

the perfume in a love letter,

the smile on your phone,

the person you call on your way home from work,

the one you reach for when you’re lost,

the heart that longs for you,

the text to remember your coffee,

the blind eye come laundry day,

the champion of breakfast,

the quietest alarm clock,

the sweetest, “I love you,”

and the bravest hello

I never thought would become

a goodbye.

Creative Writing, Poetry

Poetry: You

You are known to some but not to me.

 

You are a stranger,

merely a person I long to meet.

 

You are a classmate,

someone whose name I can’t remember,

a face I never could forget.

 

You are my friend,

developed from the vaguest acquaintance,

our conversations lengthy,

our hangouts memorable.

 

You are my secret,

with your charming words,

like a blanket on a rainy day,

you provided me with comfort,

that was quickly taken away.

 

You are my love,

your hand a home,

inviting me over,

crowded yet comfortable,

I wanted nothing more than to stay,

but you knew it was better to let me go.

 

Creative Nonfiction, Creative Writing

Little Moments: Dressing for Happiness

The other day I was at a department store and I witnessed a mother trying to reason with her young daughter over something they would probably end up disputing in many different forms for the rest of their lives. The girl had a pile of nice clothes that she had picked up, two of them being dresses that the mother didn’t think she would have a chance to wear anywhere before outgrowing them. By the time next year’s dance rolled around, she’d be too tall. Willing to compromise, the mother said the girl could buy one with her allowance. With a smile and a snatch, the girl chose the dressier of the two choices because it was “prettier.” Her mother told her that it’d be more likely that she would have something to wear the other one too and it was slightly bigger so it would fit her for longer, but that didn’t matter to the little girl. She had made her choice, choosing the pretty and the impractical. Whether or not it would fit her next year, keep forever, or outgrow by next week didn’t matter. What mattered was the present, the now, and right now wanted pretty. It didn’t want logical and big picture planning; it wanted instant gratification –that buzz that comes with getting what makes you happy, no matter the cost, even if that happiness can’t last forever. Maybe that’s the trick to life –finding those little moments of happiness that will fit for now, whether it is a man, a job, a friend, a hobby, or even just a dress.

Creative Writing, Poetry

Poetry: Encore

I watch as he stretches the rubber band,

listening as it claps with his wrist

sounding like an encore

but begging for me to stop.

I can’t; I’ve already started

and I must go on

angering him,

alarming myself.

It smacks again,

more words pour out,

confessions I need to make:

I have to leave.

He rises from his chair,

a standing ovation

I was taught never to want.

I race to the door

but he won’t let me go,

slapping me into place,

enforcing his grip on me.

Years with him made me weak,

but I had finally grown strong

with the distinct desire to be free

from his binding rule.

A round of applause —

I try to run

—too late.

The rubber band snaps,

a wild animal set loose;

I’m the only prey in sight.

I fall to the floor,

too weak to get up,

too weak to leave.

I just lie there,

cold wood pressed against my skin,

staring at the green strand

that was once so innocent

upon his thick wrist.

Now it lies on the ground

abandoned,

left for broken,

with me.

By: Kyle Freelander