Short Story Sunday: Art

Art (an extremely short Vampire story)

He never tried of looking at the Thomas Hill painting of Yosemite. Behind him he could hear the museum docent talking about the Guilded Age and the massive woodwork behind him.

As a child he’d come here for musical events, and even roller skating. Not exactly here, the new wing of the museum opened in 2010. He’d been in the original building and even in the private residence next door.

When you’re born in 1957 and still around in 2018 sometimes time seems to stand still.

A woman came up next to him and put her hand on his shoulder. He kissed her cheek.

“You look like a woman in a portrait I just saw,” he said.

“I am the woman in the portrait you saw,” she said. It was a long running joke with them.

“Glad you could make it Mom.”

“So am I. We need to do this more often.”

“October is almost here.”

“Indeed. Four of my children have birthday’s this month.”

“And Halloween.”

She gave a little snort. “It was easier to be a Vampire before Halloween was such a big deal.”

“Maybe.”

They roamed the galleries looking at both familiar and new art pieces.

She took her son’s arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I loved those times, when everything here was new. It was a new city. You were all children. So much was happening. I miss people, but I look forward. I don’t dwell on the past. That keeps us young. If you keep looking towards the future and live in the present it will keep you from being a Halloween Vampire. I shutter to think that any of my kids will be musty old beings who don’t have enough sense to keep their fangs in and blood off of their chins.”

“You’ll never have to worry about that,” said her son. “But I know what you mean.”

As they walked along they could see other in contemplation looking at the art, which like them, was timeless.

~ end

crocker-art-museum

 

Burning Question #30: Howling at the Moon

We’re down to #30 of 50 Burning Questions. Wow. Today we have yet another profound science based question.

AND you know what time of year it is. You KNOW.

It is almost OCTOBER and that means HALLOWEEN!!!!! And that means a lot of questions and posts about Vampires, Ghosts, Werewolves, Zombies, and things that go bump in the night.

Moon Rise Walk, Orangevale, CA

Full moon at the end of my street. Do you think there might be Werewolves up there?

Which brings us to the night sky, space travel, and Werewolves.

images

She blinded me with science

I am not basing any of this on old outdated yore of old. This is all new science based and fact based information. But the research is still in progress so you have to come to your own conclusions.

retro-sci-pic-21

Look closely at everything.

It is a fact that 12 (twelve) men have walked on the moon. You’d think that it would have been more by now, but unfortunately it is only twelve. But has anyone else been up there? Dogs? Not yet, but wouldn’t that be awesome.

moon babies

This photo is so cute I can hardly stand it.

However in previous posts I have proven that there have been cats and other life on Mars. Look it up (Click here for one post about it. And click here for Gassy Planets.)

Cat on Mars

We all know there are cats on Mars.

But back to the moon… and space travel…and Werewolves.

images

Werewolves are smart. I know that for a fact. The average Werewolf is well educated, well dressed, and even though they can be assholes at times they’re not all that bad. OK, not usually.

So imagine a someone, who is also a Werewolf signing up NASA or another space program. Imagine a Werewolf on the Moon. I know this is getting long so I’ll get to the question. During a full Moon a Werewolf on Earth transforms, but what about a Werewolf on the Moon? Think about it.

hairy chest guy

I’m not Juliette’s husband or a hairy Werewolf. I’m another Vampire guy with a hairy chest and a great set of wheels. Let me drive you all night baby.

 

Burning Question #30: If a Werewolf is on the Moon will it “transform” when there is a Full Earth?

 

domesticated-dog-19th-century

What do you think? What do you think about Werewolves? Are you a Werewolf? Are you an astronaut? A test pilot? A STEM teacher? Do you have a joke you want to share?  Go ahead and air your stuff in the comment section below.

In the meantime keep watching the night sky, and keep that sense of wonder.

Thank you to my friend Adelia for suggesting this question.

I’ll see you next Saturday for Burning Question #31. Feel free to make suggestions because I have NOTHING right now.

For all of the Burning Questions so far CLICK here.

Ahhhhhhhhh, oooooooooooh

xoxox

Juliette aka Vampire Maman

 

The following might scare you really bad. Just a warning.

 

 

Drinking Games and Raking Fall Leaves

Against my better judgement I had the radio on all day today. I learned that most of the old fart senators in Washington don’t know, or pretend not to know about drinking games, that teenage boys think farts or funny, or anything about beer. All of these “Good Christian Men” forget about their college years when they were sleeping with everything without a penis, drinking beer until they puked and passed out, and lighting farts on fire. They also like to hear themselves talk (even when it is through somebody else) so they ask a woman about a traumatic event she experienced at age fifteen and wonders why she didn’t tell anyone. Guess what? Teenage girls don’t share stuff like that because they know nobody will listen.

All of this just makes me think of drinking games. Take a drink for every time someone asked Kavanaugh if he liked beer or drank beer or every time Kavanaugh said he said the word “beer”. I was driving when I heard the whole beer episode. I thought I was in some sort of world that had turned into the cross between a Salvador Dali painting and a Carrie Nation Rally. By the way, if you didn’t know this already, Carrie Nation was six feet tall. I kid you not. But back to the hearing…I almost pulled over to the side of the road. I wouldn’t have been surprised to have seen Rod Serling hitch hiking with an alien.

We’ve also suggested that the TV shows “Hawaii Five-O” and “Longmire” be made into drinking games. Whenever someone gets shot you take a drink. It they die in a more unusual way you take a drink. If someone gets kidnapped you take a drink. If someone who is a main character gets kidnapped or shot you take a drink. By the end of the show, well you never see the end of the show because you’ll be passed out by then.

When I arrived home I decided to not listen to anymore noise. Alas, my plan to just listen to the purring of my cats and maybe some music turned into my usual Thursday headache. And it is also the Friday morning headache. That is LEAF BLOWERS.

About half of my neighbors have yard services and that means leaf blowers.

Vampires, due to our naturally gentle and quiet nature, hate leaf blowers.

I HATE LEAF BLOWERS. 

And half the time I see the guys blowing leaves they’re just blowing dirt. They’re blowing NOTHING. I want to yell at my neighbor after the three hour bout of blowing leaves that he needs to move to the desert if he hates a single leaf in his back yard.

Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, and everything I hold near and dear, I swear that I HATE LEAF BLOWERS. The loud noise makes my head feel like it is going to explode. Kids can’t study. Babies can’t sleep. I can’t work. I can’t do fucking anything.

I told my daughter that next Thursday when the leaf blowers start blowing I’m getting out my trumpet, and YES I do own a trumpet, and blowing it off of my deck until they all think Gabriel himself has come down to earth to do whatever it is that arc angels do. And then when there is a strange silence I shall put down my trumpet, show my fangs and whisper, “vengeance is mine.”

So I take a deep breath. 

I like raking leaves. To be honest, I don’t rake leaves, I sweep them. I sweep them off of the walkways, out of the gutters, and off of the driveway. Along with the leaves are hundreds, and maybe thousands of acorns.

Where are the squirrels when I need them? They’re in the trees barking at me and my cats.

Back to sweeping leaves. There is something so satisfying about sweeping my leaves up. It is quiet. Sweeping is prime time to get my ideas and creativity in order. It is a time to think. I love the way I make little and big piles. I love the smell. I love the mix of leaves and the random flower blossoms and bark that mixes with the leaves.

Right now there isn’t much in my wild back yard except trees so I let the leaves fall on the bare ground to make a soft carpet and get scattered by the dog and the wild turkeys. I don’t need perfection. I don’t need the noise of leaf blowers.

I need the quiet and the celebration of nature in my somewhat ordered world. To be honest with you there is little order in my world, but leaf sweeping, and any yard work in my tiny botanical garden under the oaks brings solace.

So wishing you all peace in this change of seasons. Turn off the radio and TV. Have a beer that nobody will question you about, and count your blessings.

And then hug your cats, talk to your kids, and be a good Vampire. Fall is here.

Remember…Halloween is just around the corner.

~ Juliette aka Vampire Maman

juliette kings _ Marla Todd

No Leaf Blowers Allowed in My Yard

 

 

Weirder Tales

Weirder Tales – Now Available on Amazon and other fine online bookstores. Proceeds to to MS Research.

 

 

 

 

Slut (and a few additional thoughts)

A story from my friend Bart. He’ll tell you all about it (you might have heard this before but it is a story well worth repeating – I’m sure a lot of you can relate.) At the end I will have a few more thoughts of my own.

Slut

A lot of us have kids in college, or starting college in the next year or two. One of the big things everyone is talking about is sexual assault on campus or in college towns. I’ve talked about it with my two kids who are in college. Everyone has, at least everyone who is a decent parent.

So I get this call from Hodge Williams. Yes, that Hodge Williams. Everyone remembers him.

“Bart, how are you?” As soon as he spoke I wondered what he wanted.

“Hodge. Fine. Great. Life is good. What’s up?”

“I’m writing a story on the history of sexual harassment and violence at universities in the US. I tried to contact your sister but she wouldn’t return my calls.”

“Beth?”

“Yes, Beth. She kind of got around so I was thinking she might have experienced first hand, you know, she was at risk.”

“What do you mean by at risk?”

“Oh come on, your sister was a slut. Everyone knew it.”

I sat there with the phone a bit stunned. He just called my sister a slut.

“Hodge, you’re an asshole. In fact you’ve always been an asshole.” I hung up the phone. What an asshole.

After sitting for a few minutes and collecting my thoughts I called my sister and told her about the conversation.

“What an asshole,” she said. “Sure I was sleeping with his best friend without the benefit of being his best friend’s official girlfriend. OK I also slept with another one of his friends but we were in college. We were young.”

“Did you ever sleep with Hodge?”

“No. Hell no. He was always making passes at me and grabbing me. Hodges had that Madonna/Whore things going on in his head. A girl was either a virgin until marriage or a whore. Plus we’re not like him, you know the religion thing, so he just assumed I was a whore.”

“But you didn’t have sex with him.”

“I know. That makes me a whore. He called any girl who wouldn’t have sex with him a whore.”

“What an asshole.”

“I know. Believe me, I know. I mean, if the guy had asked me to go see a movie or go for a walk or just spent time talking that would have been different but he was just all over me like…yuck. He really called you? I can’t believe he’d have the gall to do that. Asshole.”

After we got off the phone with the promise of a lunch date later in the week I got to thinking about my own kids.

I’d spoken with both my daughter and son about sexual predators. I’ve done the best to teach them not to be bully bait. I’ve taught them to stand up for themselves and for others.

From experience I knew that bullies never grow up and most don’t change.

Hodge never got the answer he wanted. Over the years Beth had a few close calls with sexual predators but she always ended up safe either by being with friends or using physical force to get out of it (exactly twice as she told me.) That didn’t include unwanted advances by guys like Hodge. And even though Hodge didn’t use force it still hurt emotionally that he’d think so little of her or of any girl.

I wanted to pound the crap out of him. Then I thought about how many other women out there who thought the guy was an asshole. That made me smile. Spread the word ladies, spread the word.

That evening after work I talked to my wife about it. She shook her head and said she’d had similar experiences. More anger surged through my brain, then sadness deep in my soul.

We all judge others. We all make assumptions. We all call names even if it isn’t out loud. We all talk behind the backs of others. Maybe we need to stop. It isn’t easy. It isn’t even practical.

Anyway, if you see Hodge Williams call him and an asshole, and tell him that Beth and Bart don’t say hello.

~ end

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Since the day I became a mom I’ve thought of telling my kids about sexual predators. I’ve told them that more often than not sexual predators are people they know. It will be their word against yours. More often than not they already know how to hack the physical, emotional, legal, and social systems so that you won’t win. But always fight back. Never believe their lies. Tell your parents or someone else you trust.

Parents: LISTEN to your kids. Talk to them. Don’t judge. Don’t yell. Listen. Help. BELIEVE THEM. Kids and teens don’t lie about these things.

College Kids: RED CUPS. Don’t drink out of a drink anyone else gave you. That sweet punch in the big red cups will SLAM you hard. There will be a blog post about it and a quiz in a day or two.

In light of everything going on in the news this week I have a story. A friend posted something on FaceBook about men and boys behaving badly. She claimed if women flashed their boobs at Mardi Gras and other drunken events like concerts etc., then why did we all have a problem with men flashing their dicks.  I thought I’d quote my 19 year old daughter:

“When a woman flashes her boobs she is being silly and using bad judgement. It is insanely tacky and rude but not threatening anyone. When a man exposes his penis to someone it is a power and control thing. He is doing it as a threat. He is doing it with the purpose to make someone else intentionally uncomfortable. You can’t compare the two.”

That is all for today. Be safe. Talk to your kids. Listen to them. Believe them.

~ Juliette aka Vampire Maman

 

Vlad’s Vampire Diary: Whispering

Dear Diary,

Jane the coyote with a Werewolf soul has left me. She curled up, fell asleep, and did not wake.

I stroked her cold still head feeling sad when my phone rang. I usually do not answer but this time I was drawn to the call.

“Hey, Vlad, it’s me, Jane. I found a human body. Just wanted to call and thank you for taking care of me when I was in transition,” a female voice said to me.

“What about the coyote? My coyote.”

“Her soul is long gone. I was just borrowing her body. Awwww Vlad, you’re so cute. Don’t be sad. I’m in a better place. Seriously, this woman was beautiful. I mean she still is. I never looked this good with my first body.”

“Did you kill her?”

“No. No way. She died and her soul left, so you know, I swooped in and started the old heart up again.”

“I see. How…”

“Long story. I don’t have time right now to explain. You know, places to be, people to see. I have a lot of catching up to do. So I’ll see you around Vlad. Thanks again for everything. Love ya. Bye.”

I looked at the coyote body so cold and now seeming small. I could not help but feel sad. I do not know why. Nor do I know why Jane said I was cute.

Jane the coyote was buried in my back yard. I planted a red rose-bush over her grave and covered it with river rocks. My cats watched me with solemn cat eyes then went to sleep on a deck chair.

Jane is no longer mine.

~ Vlad

 

Dear Diary,

Tonight my love Gillian and I went out to find something entertaining to do. We cut through an alley where we heard someone laughing. Strange music came through an open door.

“I haven’t heard this forever. What’s up with the old music?”

“I do not know. Everything is new to me. ” Sometimes I still feel the urge to remind her that I was locked in a crypt for three hundred years and missed the Eighteenth through Twentith Centuries.

“I have a weird feeling about this,” she said and squeezed my arm.

This is the music if one could call it that. Gillian said they were playing a saw. I do not understand playing music with a tool. It sounded like something my cats would have written and played on bones and garden tools. If cats could write music and play bones and garden tools. I would not put it past them.

I later learned the song was called Whispering. It was popular in the 1920’s. I understand that was an extremely strange time when women stopped wearing so many clothes, cut their hair, and were allowed to vote. Vampires have always treated their women equally. I do not know what is wrong with people. Maybe it is the warm blood in their veins cooking their brains and making them stupid.

 

 

My love and I walked down narrow steps, ready to show our fangs and fight, or feast, depending on who or what we found at the bottom.

I thought of another time I walked into a tavern and experienced unexpected and dangerous consequences. This time I was determined not to let my guard down, after all I am the Vampire King.

At the bottom of the stairs a man in a striped double breasted suit greeted us.

“Welcome to Easy Street,” he said.

“Oh my goodness, this is right out of the 20’s,” said Gillian.

I, of course had no idea what she was talking about because I have no point of reference when it comes to most cultural references. My English is better than it was four years ago but everything else is still as confusing as Hell.

He led us into a bar where people danced to music with men in high voices, and it looked rather clean and sleek. Gillian called it Art Deco.

I looked around. “What is Deco?”

Gillian took my arm, “It is short for Arts Décoratifs. Decorative art. It came about right after the Art Nouveau movement, and of course the Arts and Crafts movement. I believe it came out of one of the oh so many World’s Fairs or expositions everyone used to have back then.”

I still had no idea what Gillian was talking about and kissed her cool cheek.

“With your pretty face you fit right in here. You could pass for someone out of The Great Gatsby,” Gillian said.

“I thought I was cute.”

“You’re more than cute, silly.”

“Now I am silly?” I didn’t ask her what the Great Gatsby was. I know it does not involve Vampires or I would have heard of it already. I doubted if I would want to be in it. Gatsby. That sounds like the noise my cat makes when she vomits.

We sat at the large bar, drank Gin Rickeys and spoke with other patrons about upcoming art shows at the museum and football. I have come to frequent the art museum. I have yet to understand the obsession with football. Football has all of the earmarks of a magnificent pageant with large violent men, screaming fans, and the thing I least understand, the scantily clad women dancing on the edge of the field, and regional territorial rites. One clan even wears cheese on their heads and sits in the cold to prove their faithfulness to their gods of the game. Now that I write it out I now, oh how do they say, I get it. I understand. But it is not a past time for a Vampire. I prefer Baseball or Basketball, or just rolling heads of my enemies around in the forest while on a horse…

As we talked and I looked for someone with nice veins in their wrists, I noticed the place was filling up. Everyone seemed to know everyone, except for Gillian and me.

The man who greeted us at the door, his name was Mel, said, “You gotta go. In about fifteen minutes this is gonna be no place for Vampires.”

“You know we are Vampires?” I asked.

“Sure I know. And in fifteen minutes I’m locking up the doors and everyone in here except you and your beautiful lady are going to turn into wolves. Tonight is a full moon man, and we’re all Werewolves. You know how it is. We lock up in here and don’t get into trouble. You have to go now. And hey, don’t get into any trouble yourselves. I know how Vampires are.”

Gillian and I left with fond farewells. This was one of the strangest experiences I have ever experienced. As we left I wondered if Jane would ever go there now. Gillian and I laughed about as we walked down the street to another place. It was a place we knew. It was a place without surprises and lovely warm blooded people who only had dogs as pets.

~ Vlad

 

Dear Diary,

Tonight I drove to the mountains, to a cabin where I would seek out peace and reflect upon the night sky with an infinite number of stars.

Why did no one tell me that cats do not like to ride in cars? It makes no sense to me. I do not understand.

I put pillows and blankets the cats like in the back seat. Their favorite food was there. They had access to a view out of the windows. Boxes were on the floor for them to play in. There was even a littler box. They might have shown their appreciation to me.

Cats also do not like being harnessed or put attached to a leash.

Into the trunk of my car I put twelve bottles of blood to share, and twelve bottles of good red wine, plus my clothes. My two cats had the ENTIRE car, aside from the driver’s seat, to themselves. Did they thank me? No, they did not.

As soon as I backed out of my driveway onto the street my cats began to scream. It was not normal cat noises but the voices of demonic chanting. It was the voice of death. It was mournful yowling of the saddest kind.

Then one crawled upon my back and put her claws around my head, while the other ran around the car, jumping as if she had gone insane. Why did not a single person tell me that THIS is how cats behave in cars. I do not understand.

When I arrived to pick up my friend Randolpho, who would accompany me to the mountains, I was exhausted. Vampires are known for their endless energy but these cats, they had me worn out.

Randolpho just laughed at me. “Why didn’t you put them in cat carriers?”

“Cat carrier?”

“A box, a crate with a door, or even a soft sided bag made for transporting cats.”

“You jest,” I said.

“Vlad, did you really think the cats would like to ride in the car?”

“Yes, I did really think that Randolpho,” I said beginning to lose my patience with him, as well as the cats.

Randolpho put his gear in the trunk of the car and we drove to the mountains. The cats began to sing their demonic songs. I showed them my fangs. They yowled even more.

“Don’t show them your fangs,” said Randolpho. “Cats never forget or forgive.”

Then he grabbed a soft blanket from the back seat of the car and coaxed the cats onto his lap. I could not believe that after all I have done for them that my cats would sit quietly for Randolpho and yowl their heinous vile insulting songs at me.

“They’re just afraid Vlad. You can’t expect them to be like dogs and be happy with everything. They’re cats. You need to be gentle and whisper sweet things to them so that they’ll feel safe.”

I turned on the radio. It was not Whispering or any old music. As we drove higher in elevation, among the pine trees I looked for wolves. The moon was no longer full but I always look – just in case.

Trying to lighten up the mood I said, “In the old days we wold have brought up two or three people rather than bottles of blood. They would have been glad to come with us. Remember those times?”

Randolpho stroked a purring kitty and gave me a sideways glance. “Sure, back when we lived in your castle and you were the King. Not anymore. The kind of people who want to go to Vampire gatherings and get their blood sucked are weird.”

“What do you mean by weird?”

“Just weird. They’re Vampire wanna bees. And even if they don’t want to be Vampires they just creep me out. You know the whole subsurvant semi sexual servant master thing, but it’s more than that. They’re like groupies.”

“Groupies. What is groupies?”

“Followers. My point is that they’re strange. They get off on the idea of being our slaves and laying naked on a table for us to feast on and shit like that.”

“I see.”

“And they’re usually stupid and don’t live in the real world. It is all fantasy to them. They don’t get that we have to rake our leaves and clean out litter boxes just like everyone else.”

Sometimes Randolpho had an interesting ways to describe the world to me but I found myself more often than not agreeing with him.

Our friends greeted us at the cabin, which was not a cabin at all. A cabin is a hut like structure with a fire pit. This was a 4,000 square foot house with a dock on the lake. The cats gladly walked on their leashes into the house where they were met by adoring Vampires. After Randolpho and I unpacked our things I walked alone along the shore of the lake.

The air was cold. The sky with clear with an infinite number of stars. The moon was slightly deflated.

I thought about Jane and wondered where she was. I thought about my castle and my old life style which is now considered unacceptable. I thought about how I never imagined I would miss three centuries and end up in a world where I would be terrorizing cats in automobiles. I could not even imagined what an automobile was four years ago.

I thought about a song I’d heard on the radio.

There is much I do not understand. But now, I do understand that one should never take riding in cars with cats lightly.

~ Vlad

 

Kissed by a Vampire

Kissed by a Vampire

You’ve just finished reading the 41st installment of Vlad’s Vampire Diary. For the entire series, from the start CLICK HERE.

 

Short Story Sunday: Night Dogs

Tangled Tales

Constantine Jones sat on the bottom of the museum steps wondering what just happened.

Earlier that evening he’d put on his best Armani suit, a Hermes silk tie, and was feeling good about the outcome of the evening. It was to be a charity event. Beautiful people would be there dressed up. Everyone would be relaxed, and happy, and it would be delightfully fun.

After discussing art and drinking champagne he’d lured a few well-heeled patrons to remote galleries to see some unusual modern art. There he took a few pints of blood from wrists and left his donors with no memories, except those of a delightful conversation with a well dressed, nice looking young art expert. Well, a 165 year old art expert, but that was besides the point.

Then in the main gallery, the California Room, he saw her standing in front of the Thomas Hill grand painting of Yosemite Valley. She wasn’t the most beautiful woman in the room but she was attractive in a cute sort of California girl way, and had that delightful look of both shyness and playfulness. Her olive green dress shimmered along the neckline with iridescent beads. As she turned her head towards him it was like a lightning bolt had hit his heart. First sight.

Second sight as well. A smallish dog of unknown breed stood next to her with a service dog vest on. A service dog. Why did she need a service dog?

With his usual ease, Constantine approached the woman. He asked if he could pet the dog. She said yes. She told him she’d had a head injury when she was in Afghanistan. She’d been in the Army. He would never guessed. The dog could detect seizures.

They talked for an hour about art, and life, and it seemed as if he’d met his soul mate. It was the best hour he’d ever spent. Then she was gone. He hadn’t even asked her name.

So like Prince Charming, he sat at the bottom of the stairs wondering where Cinderella had gone. All he had of her was one of her earrings he’d found on the steps. It was a gold strand with a single diamond on the end. The diamond was real.

I might as well walk home he thought. It was just a couple of miles. He’d clear out his mind. The full moon, and lights from late night downtown bars and restaurants lit the way.

Out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw a large dog wearing a back pack. A service dog? A smaller dog in a vest followed. Around the next corner, in an alley, he saw three more large dogs in the dark, all wearing packs.

Maybe it was a training exercise. The dogs could have been German Shepards looking for drugs or a missing person, or even bodies. It was weird, but at this point he didn’t care. He just wanted to go home. He was a Vampire so weird and unusual was over rated anyway.

Constantine thought about the woman he’d met. She’d been a nurse in a convoy, and there was a bomb. She didn’t say anything else except that her dog was named Tess. She liked Jazz music, indie films, and indie books. Of course she liked art too. She was a high school art teacher now, having moved on from nursing. But sometimes she helped out the school nurse. Weird how he got those details. He’d told her… what had he told her about himself? Not much. He was a Vampire so he never told much, at least not at first. He’d told her that he ran a philanthropic foundation that supported the arts, and other causes. He told her he had two cats and liked astronomy. She also was a watcher of the moon and stars. Then she kissed his cheek, excused herself, and a few minutes later he saw her walking out the front door of the museum.

As a Vampire he usually had a good feel for people but he couldn’t get a final read on her. Again, he thought about the fact that he didn’t even get her name. But the dog was named Tess. Tess the service dog.

Constantine thought about war. He could imagine the horrors she’d been through. He was a child during the Civil War or the War Between the States, whatever they wanted to call it. Those weren’t memories he cared to relive. He’d come out to California as soon as he was old enough to be on his own, as soon as he’d become a Vampire, and stayed there.

As he walked along the dogs with packs stayed in the alleys and shadows. Looking at the local news feeds and police scans from his iPhone he found nothing. One of his neighbors was a K-9 cop. Constantine would ask him about it tomorrow.

Arriving home at his craftsman style bungalow he noticed a few dogs in packs at the end of the street. This was getting weird. Odder, and a nice surprise, was that a woman in a slightly wrinkled olive green dress, and a single diamond and gold earring was standing on his front porch.

Tess the service dog stood beside her. Hanging off of her shoulder was a back pack.

No. It couldn’t be. She wasn’t Cinderella. She was a Werewolf.

They introduced themselves, again, but this time with names. Her name was Diana. Like the goddess of the moon.

“You have my earring,” she said smiling and holding out a hand.

“You have my heart,” he heard himself saying, much to his surprise.

Then he kissed her under the full moon, as Tess sat at attention and wagged her tail.

~ End