The Vampire

I don’t remember ever getting bitten.  It’s just something that’s always been.  I feel the detachment from the soul as if it were a tangible thing.  As I walk by mortal citizens everyday, I feel their body and soul connection still strong with them; they, unaware of the privilege of their normalcy, living in their self inflicted stresses and trivial discourses; accomplishing some sort of awkward continual movement, a carrying of a torch with no flame that will be passed on to some newly paved sewer system on the north side of town.

I feel them seeing me.  Perhaps they don’t but that is what it means to be in “the curse.”  I don’t thirst for their blood as most have come to believe.  Oddly, your literature has vastly underestimated the severity of the evil that accompanies “the curse.”  It’s not one of bloodlust and satisfaction in the death of another.  On the contrary, the blood that is continually pulling those with “the curse” is one that cannot be found; yet the hunger for it never ceases.  That is the blood I desire: a blood unexplainable, incomprehensible, and yet never yielding its grip. 

I want to believe that the memories of life outside of “the curse” are real.  I often attempt to recall a childhood in which my soul and body were one; a life with a definite enough body of land to walk upon. But, the inability to establish these recollections as concrete is yet another branch of the affliction that is “the curse.”  The more I attempt to remember a reality beyond “the curse,” the more fictitious that reality seems.

And I don’t remember getting bitten.  But, if I did, then I could conclude that I was not plagued by “the curse.”  A true evil is not one that is easily recognized.  And this evil is of the truest nature.  It’s easy to associate my affliction in story as glossy, white-fanged, hypersexual, attractive demons with very defined weaknesses.  It’s much harder to suspect the overweight, ugly, or unconfident. But a true evil has no power if it is easily recognized.  No, there is no suspicion directed at the overweight, the ugly, or the unconfident.  The lack of suspicion brings an inviting calm.  And in this inviting calm we feed.   But we do not drink of the physical blood, we eat of the soul.  And we never overindulge, no, we only wound the soul to such a crippling state that it is unrecognizable.  And, though we eat, we never satisfy.

We are not harmed by the sun, or holy water, or the sight of crosses.  No, those definite afflictions would draw attention to our state.  On the contrary, we are drawn to images of the cross and then forced to struggle with our unfulfilled desire for the justification of the soul, being contrasted by our souls devoured by “the curse.”  And it is our affliction to relate our origin somehow to our doing despite even the memory of how we came to be under “the curse.”  Our souls are clothed in guilt from head to toe.  The garment reeks and drags for many miles behind.

I remember realizing my state.  I remember the desire for tears and the empty return.  Emotion is a luxury orchestrated by the soul.

I don’t remember ever getting bitten.  However, I do remember immersing my invisible fangs in many a soul.  I remember the slow trickle of blood, beginning ever so slightly as they leave my company and gradually develop into a crippling river.  They were not strangers. 

I have not wandered the earth to reach a new peak to place my burning torch.  I have not assembled an army to march with me into some holy war.  No, my path is ridden with blood and weighted and clothed in “the curse.”

Occasionally, there are those that resist me.  These souls are wise. They recognize the affliction that is before them.  Although never immediately, no, none are that wise.  Instead, they are first caught in the charm of “the curse” but alarmed at the subtle teeth on their neck.  These are few: those who craftily escape my grasp. It is these few that “the curse” within me finds terrifying.  It plagues me with their thoughts and their intentions, whether true or fictitious.  It is these that I cannot escape, no matter how few they may be in number.  It is these that war within me and pain me endlessly.  Yes, it is they whom my detached evil soul finds threatening.  For it is they that understand the unknowable.  It is they that can relieve me.  And in that, “the curse” reacts.  It screams deafening tones when in they are near.  It is debilitating to the point of the ceasing of thought. 

Yet in the depths of my warring soul, I seek them.  If there is hope of a cure, it lies in them.  Faith is foreign to me, so I methodically arrange myself to fit in their company. 

But, alas, even this is “the curse.”  With every encounter I have, I feel the wall grow thicker around me.  The hope itself is a delusion created to torment me further. I will not lead an army to plant a great torch upon the highest peak.  No, I will take this mass of afflicted souls with me to the grave.

The Wondrous Spells We Cast On Ourselves

His great grey cloak rose almost completely over his face so that his features were barely visible.  It dragged naggingly behind him as he quickly hobbled along the old, overgrown path connecting the far towns to one another.  He grunted as he pulled himself over the last high peak in the mountains and, pulling his cloak slightly to reveal his dark eyes, he took in the view of his destination. 

The town in the valley had become quite desirable.  For the only selectively fertile land it was built on, the town in the valley had done quite well; experimenting with different kinds of vegetation and concentrating on what grew in abundance as well as developing new skills on the land that was infertile.  Every man in the town had a job that he was skilled at and every man delighted in his labor.  

As the cloaked man approached, he stopped short and tilted his head to read the sign guarding the city: Our Great Town, Thanks be to the Great Magician known only as Time.  He chuckled slightly and strode on toward two men working the fertile land.  As he approached, he peered out the sides of his thick cloak for any others, and once confirmed that there were none, approached the two men.  The men had already ceased working and were viewing this strange creature in their town.  The cloaked man then revealed his hand clenched into a tight fist from his cloak and stretched his arm toward them.  The two men looked at each other confirming their discomfort at this intrusion.  Then the cloaked man unclenched his fist to reveal to them a beaming jewel.  This jewel immediately took the men's interest for, in this land, jewels were not to be found.  The cloaked man spoke, "My good men, I come from the East.  I have come far to bring you this gift.  It is a wondrous secret we have mastered that I bring to share to you. With this great spell, you can defeat the effects of time on yourselves.  It has but one rule: the rule of repetition."

The men were awestruck.  They were completely enveloped in this idea without completely understanding.  One of the men jumped from his working place and snatched the jewel from the cloaked man's hand.  The other ran to him and together they feasted their eyes on this beautiful, mysterious item.  And, as they were viewing the jewel, the intruding, cloaked man's voice ominously spoke in almost a whisper, "Remember, the rule of repetition: you simply do all in repetition. You'll find yourself whole without distraction.  You'll find yourself young...forever."

One of the men spoke, "wait, what about our other desi-" but as he looked up the man had gone.

It didn't take long for the men to cast the "spell of repetition." Even in that same day they began practicing by finding ways to do their work without thought.  Everyday they found new ways to cast the spell.  They would work so mindlessly that they would work well into the night only to retreat quickly to their beds to dream of the long, youthful lives they'd live.  They dreamt of the wrinkles they'd never be cursed with and the strong bones that would persevere with them long after their peers' bodies had retired.  They thought of the youthful energy they'd operate in long after their bodies' expiration dates.

It didn't take long for the townspeople to notice.  They would inquire of the men, but the men would only continue their work.  The men's families, now distant, would plead with them to no avail.  It was only out of sheer frustration that a quilt maker was able to pull the encounter of the cloaked man and the jewel from one of the men's lips.  

The news of the men's spell and the jewel spread quickly through the town and the people reasoned with each other.  A blacksmith said, "I could easily cast this spell of repetition."  An apothecary reasoned, "If this stone is able to bless TWO men then surely it is potent enough to bless this whole town."  A winemaker interjected, "For a blessing this great, it is surely worth the effort to cast this 'spell' on all of us."

So the town collectively decided to cast the "spell of repetition" on themselves.  They retreated within themselves and their work, laboring constantly and repetitively.  They spoke little and made only necessary contact with each other.  And, although they worked tirelessly, they produced slightly less due to lack of thought, innovation, or effectiveness of labor.  They grew to resent each other even.  If one were to break from labor, even for a moment, the townspeople would grow angry with the wrong-doer and resent them for stepping out of the spell's rule even for a moment.  Those who did not desire the spell, who desired old age to mirror their time in the land, were treated with even more resentment.  Perhaps it was jealousy  of them, for they would not work as much, or simply the "spell of repetition" itself having effect on the townspeople, driving them to hate anything outside of the continual motion that they had created, causing this negativity toward their neighbors.  But that would not be understood, because that would require thought outside of the routine. 

Time passed.

There was a cold breeze that flew from the west and picked up a hefty haze of pollen to fly over the mountains separating the towns and into the nostrils of the great magician known as Time.  "A stale harvest indeed," he said.  "I shall go and see of this mystery."  He stood from his worktable atop the unconquered mountain, stepped into his mechanical carriage, and left his contentment for the town in the valley.

When he arrived, he found the town slowly but continually busy.  He spoke to them but they ignored him.  They appeared to not have even noticed that he had arrived.  The town itself was a strange weaving of specific work places somewhat kept and worked paralleled with normal maintenances overgrown and decrepit.  He was in shock at the empty eyes of this once favored town; heartbroken at these who he once loved.

Then he noticed it.  It appeared to have fallen off of a makeshift shrine and never picked up to return to place.  Dull and scuffed, half buried sat the "magical" jewel brought to the town by the cloaked man.  

The old magician sighed as he reached down and took hold of the jewel.  He knew of it well. As he looked into it he noted the shine had dulled because it was no natural shine at all, rather a wax gloss placed over it.  And he dug his nail into the carved imperfections splintering them further to prove it's lack of magical property.  He held the phony jewel up high so all the townspeople could see.  The townspeople paused briefly to gaze at their prize jewel.  And, with the smallest bolt of electricity from his fingers, the great magician known as Time destroyed the jewel.

The surprise the townspeople felt was that there was no change in the way they felt.  There was no great spirit that left them or blessing that forsook them.  There was never a "spell", the people had been fooled.  As they looked around at each other they were horrified to see themselves wrinkled and weak, tired and stupid.  They knew only the single skill they had each labored at continually over the years; never to master, only to travail in continuously.  

The townspeople had been deceived.  In their grieving the old magician Time scolded them saying, "Do you prefer your judgement, to mine?  Did you not know that it was I who cast the spell of wrinkled skin on you to remind you of your years and it was I who cast the spell of tired bones to warn you of the inevitable end you must all arrive at.  These are not curses, these are blessings to keep you from the repetitive."

The people were shammed.  They had few skills among them and their condition had made it difficult to produce offspring to continue the town's heritage.  The old magician Time urged, "It is not too late, revive yourselves; teach each other and learn so that you may strengthen your town."  But the people wept and groveled in their misery.  They listened to the old magician's words but now they needed no spell to keep them from hearing.  They had retreated into their pride.  Then, as they wept, the sound of hammering reverberated through the town.  As the people looked, the blacksmith had returned to his droning as he had done before under the "spell".  Slowly, one by one the people all returned to their labors as they did before, despite the empty shrine in the middle of the town, or the words of their wise great magician.  And it was no time at all that all the weeping and groveling had silenced and only the comfortably familiar sound of the past years emanated from the town.

The great magician known as Time turned from the town, heartbroken.  He climbed into his mechanical carriage and began climbing the hills toward his dwelling.  But as he crossed over the northwestern mountains of Terger, he looked and saw an army of a few hundred warriors rapidly descending the mountains toward the town in the valley.  And as he squinted his eyes, he could see a single leader riding on before the army with a flag held high; a single man with a great grey cloak trailing behind him.

To Start...

This is a short story blog.  A short story blog with no intention of sticking to a particular style of writing, subject matter, or even relevance to anything.  I've been collecting stories for over a decade in a cowboy hat given to me by my grandfather and I guess I feel (some of) these ideas shouldn't just float off into oblivion. I've also lately been having some new ideas that I'm putting confidence in and would like to put them down in magical internet ink and send them out for everyone's lousy opinions.
I sincerely hope these stories satisfy the longing in your soul, changing your life so drastically that you can never live the same.
...But I would be content if you simply enjoyed them.

-JERK
(The pen name was already selected a long time ago so I suppose it stays.)