Short Story Sunday: No Little Women, Only Great Ones.

Meg, Jo, Beth, Amy

Elise and her daughter Jilly both loathed the March sisters and their sissy friend Theodore Laurence.

Elise, with her beautiful voice, attempted to read Little Women to her daughter, but the child fell asleep. A few years later they attempted to listen to an audio version while driving from Northern California to Las Vegas.

Jilly announced the story was horrible. They both laughed and spent the next fifteen minutes mocking the story.

Elise shared the books with Jilly that touched her soul. She passed on “The Crystal Singer,” by Anne McCaffrey. She passed on “Jayne Eyre” by Charlotte Bronte. Jilly passed “Hunger Games” on to her mom.

They loved a different kind of woman. The Little Women were quaint and strong in their own way but they were too silly.  Elise and Jilly just couldn’t relate to them.

Elise often wondered about Marmee. In her opinion Marmee was weak and didn’t give her daughter’s the emotional support they needed. Her advice was trite and weak.

Elise and Jilly kept their opinions to themselves, as they did with a lot of other things. It was always best just to smile and say nothing, unless it was an opinion of injustice or something that was actually important.

Jilly loved the fact that her mother was funny and independent, even when all hell broke loose. She loved the fact that her mother had married a man who was strong and devoted to them.

So on this Mother’s Day they didn’t think of fictional characters because they had their own stories and adventures to star in.

Make your story with your child or mom, be it quiet or loud. Happy Mother’s Day.


~ end


Tangled Tales





My Own Vampire Maman

She walked into the crowded bar as if she owned the place. I waved. She flashed me a dazzling smile and walked my way.

Black jeans, a dusty plum-colored coat over a white dress shirt she borrowed from her man, buttons open to give a hint of a promise of something soft and lace covered, the most darling gray boots with buckles and heels, a gray and blue scarf, and a black messenger bag with a tiny gold bat pin attached to it. Her nails are covered in glossy gray varnish as perfect as perfect can be, set off  a perfect dark fire opal on her right hand. Loose dark brown chestnut colored ringlets cascading down her back. Perfect smoky eyes as gray as a winter sky shot with blue and a slight hint of pink lip-gloss on cupid kissed lips. She could be somewhere between 25 and 35 but it doesn’t matter. She is perfect. Every male head in the place turns. My mom just walked into the room.

She walked to the bar where I sat nursing a gin and tonic. She didn’t need to pull up a stool – four were immediately offered to her. She grabbed one a few places down and sat it next to me. Her arm went around my waist and squeezed. All was right in the world. Mom was here.

She still calls me her baby. I still call her my Maman.

She picks something off of my sweater. She liked my hair. My nail color made my hands look dirty. Was Teddy home. Was Clara at class tonight? I looked tired. Was I getting enough sleep? Was I spending all my time catering to my children? Was I working on my novels? Was I planning my winter and spring gardens?

My dad with at my brother Aaron’s house. It was a big girl night out.

She scanned the room and said, “we won’t go out hungry tonight.”

No we wouldn’t.

I put my hands in my lap, then decided to ignore her comment about my nail color. I liked the color even though I doubt if I’d wear it again.

We spoke quietly, our heads together. A man asked if we were sisters. My mom said we were.

He was in his early thirties. Blonde hair, green eyes, button down shirt. Cute bordering on handsome. My mom is 388 years old.

She whispered something in his ear and put her hand on his shoulder. He smiled. He was hers for the night if she wanted him. That isn’t what she said to him, but she can make anyone feel good. She said there was a girl in the bar who liked him, the pretty girl who is never the prettiest in the room and never the one who gets picked first. The girl was smart and funny and sexy and a little different. He’d pick her tonight and in a few months time he’d pick her forever. My maman has a talent for facilitating happily ever after events. How Vampires got the bad rap I’ll never know (actually I do but that’s another blog post) but we’re quite the romantics and lovers.

Her wedding ring was on a cord around her neck, hidden under her shirt. It was funny considering we spent most of the evening talking about my dad. She said she wanted to spend the week with my daughter.

She said she’d planted the pansies I’d given her.  Hers were doing great but mine were still smallish. I told her that was because she loved her plants more than mine. She laughed.  She had some bulbs in the car for me. I told her that I’d give them lots of love.

We were like any other mother and daughter meeting in the evening. Except we were out for blood. But that’s ok with us.

~ Juliette aka Vampire Maman

Friends and Family and Frustration

Obbie – short for Obsidian Reed, the second person I turned into a Vampire. My mother never approved. Then again she doesn’t approve of much of anything I do.

I don’t want to be like my own mother.

She was there and sacrificed for us but she never understood who her children were.

She wasn’t someone I could look up to. She wasn’t someone I wanted to be or be like. Granted she is brilliant and accomplished but she is cold. I know, cold isn’t a bad thing if you’re a Vampire, but it just isn’t my cup of blood.

Don’t get me wrong, there was no abuse, no horrible unspeakable things, just nothing in common with her younger children. No understanding of who they were or who they wanted to be. She could never understand. It is the way she is wired.

She is lovely and all the Vampires adore her…

When she calls I cringe. I was having a good day, then her voice. Then negativity. Never asking me how I’m doing or what I think.

My brother Val marvels at how our mother can put a negative spin on anything.

Things are ok, but I don’t want to be that kind of mother for my own children. I’m not that kind of mother. I want to shower them with feelings of joy.

I must watch to make sure I don’t become that woman… the one who finds negativity in everything. I don’t want to be judging my children. Of course my mother never judges my children, only the younger three of her five children, the three who in my opinion are doing the best. We’re the most boring and non-vampirish of her brood – that is in her opinion, which is the only opinion in her world.

She adores her grandchildren. The grandchildren get all the trash talk about their parents,  my brother Aaron (the only other sibling with children) and me. No use asking her to stop. The kids are old enough to think it is hilarious.

You know, I’m talking care of my kids, my marriage, my job plus the elders and my siblings messes so I don’t need anyone to give me advice. I’m handing it all as best as I can, which is better than most.

So the other day I was trying to decompress from a phone call my old friend Obbie showed up at my door like a bright and shining moonbeam.

“You’re always doing interesting things with Samantha.” Obbie tells me. “She isn’t that bad. At least you have a mom.”

“I just wish…”

He smiled with his charming Vampire-next-door way. “You think about it too much.”

Maybe I do. There comes a time when we all have things we just have to let go of and accept – even if it takes 100 years or so.

It would be a busy night. Obbie and I took my kids out to see the Elders, two ancient Vampires who often are in need of company and help with little things. They are frustrating, the ancient ones, but always so sweet and loving. They look at the world through a crystal that shines many colors. They understand me. As much as I can, I understand them as well.

Obbie also understands me as only a dear friend can. Family is important but there are some things that only our friends “get” about us. They know us in a different way, a new way that isn’t out of a sense of obligation or blood.

The first time I met Obbie was at an art show in 1889. We started to talk and talked and laughed all night. About a week later he said, “I wish this could last forever.” I told him it could. My mother did not approve. But that’s ok. Obbie adores her and I guess… well that is just weird, but that’s ok. Most things in my life are weird. And you know, sometimes weird is good.


Have a good week everyone.

~ Juliette aka Vampire Maman