Dracula in London

The Nasty Heel of a Boot.

I never even got to touch his toe. Little things can have power too. The imploding heart… and he was gone. I was five and couldn’t understand, and yet I knew that something had come crashing and would never fly again. My mother soon remarried; the tears had dried, I guess. And This Husband couldn’t be, would never be… but now made real the striking of flesh and bone, rather than the birthing of flesh and blood.

Blood…

Fly Number 139. When I first began my Grand Experiment, I kept tally, of a sort, by notching the back of the door with a dinner knife after lights out. I now jot numbers down in a little book the Doctor has asked me to use. He insisted on a written entry, and not knowing what else to do, I laughed. He tried to confiscate my notching-tool and paid dearly for it. Oh, it was hardly a mortal wound. You’re more likely to die from the food than a swipe from what was meant to cut into that crap. But he managed to bleed copiously—there on the floor. The taste was, exquisite! He was appalled at the sight of me lapping on all fours the puddle of his deep red. To this day, I am limited in my cutlery to only using a spoon. Now, a spoon takes more effort, but makes a more artistic gouge.

But I have agreed to also make entries in his “little book.” He thinks it gives a sense of order to my world. Certainly to his, but not to mine. Numbers, like order, are not real. Thus have I rendered them meaningless. Number 81 sits beside the number 4, 21 beneath 39, and on and on. Oh, he will ponder and search for meaning, and when he finally deciphers a pattern, he thinks I may yet be cured. But the only pattern, and what is real are my notches on the door over there. They don’t signify any number, but an instance of pleasure in the consumption of life. I have configured a wondrous thing, a veritable work of Art… and Magic. With each mark The Master is drawn that much closer. And when the pattern is complete, He will be here for me. There is as much method in my madness as in the doctor’s. But Herr Doktor Seward, I look seaward for my salvation, ha! and I will never be your creature.

The cure is not in little books, but sailing here to Carfax. From out of His castle near the Borgo Pass, He comes where He is needed most. Soldier and alchemist, with a mighty brain, learning beyond compare, and a heart that knows no fear. I keep crude count, and oddly, but that Count Dracula may one night appear with that great lofty dome of His forehead, the aquiline nose, long sharp nails, extraordinary pallor, and vengeful red eyes that blaz-z-z-z-ze!

Order—Hymenoptera… yellow, black, and fuzzy… Apis… Apis…

The Tale of the Bee

The usual riot of color—the redyellowbluegreen of it all—and the smell, the woozy, intoxicating scents that teased and drew and beckoned; and they were all still about, but strange. Dulled and blunted almost beyond recognition. And the sun—high in the bright blue air, or had been. Don’t know where to go; but go. And the bee, knocked almost senseless to reach the world it had known, hit a barrier it couldn’t really see. And it hurt. The hardness and the heat. Glass; the bee had known this thing before, but then there was always some eventual escape from its cool deception. Now the bee was surrounded by that memory, but with metal on top and punched with holes. Bits of blue air sneaked in— a healing breeze—and roused the bee from its stupor. Sort of. For now it seemed to be flying, and yet its wings were still. Focus was not a simple thing, but the bee soon realized a young human was carrying the jar in which it had been trapped. The boy pressed his own proboscis against the glass. A monstrous face.

Boys will be boys.

Through the holes in the lid he poked blades of grass and bits of clover. Lovely clover. Its tantalizing odor revived the bee even more—enough to see an older male approaching the boy. The man’s body seemed to weave, although this could have been a distortion of the glass. And with a flashing thud, the jar flew out of the young boy’s hand, landing in a soft clump of grass.

A few minutes passed before the bee could get its bearings. If the bee could’ve understood the human tongue, it would’ve heard the man, with slurring speech:

“Who’re you laughing at, eh?” Slap! “Sneaking a peek at your Mum and me?! I’m on to you. You’re no good.” Slap! (Boys will be…) “Your Mum will give you away, and it’ll serve you right. You’re nothing and will always be. Fly-catching son-of-a-bitch!”

The Young One shakily challenged the Dominant Male. “I-It’s a bee, and it’s bee-eautiful.”

Now, the bee could not follow this, and yet, and yet… Smack! And then the heady smell of blood. Beloved rose-deep-red trickling down the Monster-Boy’s face.

“What do you know about beauty? Infant!”

And with the nasty toe of the boot, the Step-Father kicked the jar aloft. The glass-eyed planet panicked and flew by in flashes of light. The bee and all—shattered ‘gainst a rock. On fire; and the bee was speared by a shard of glass.

Somehow… somehow, he found some humming spark and shook himself free. Bumbling and erratic, he weaved towards them through the air. He could no longer sense the sun’s direction, and his aim was mostly gone. He didn’t even know if he still had a stinger to do the job up proper. Blood-rose and clover bits would be the last to tempt his tender labium, but even that memory was thrown in shadow by the urge to inflict on another his pain and dying.

Boys will be boys, and bees will be; and with his last ounce he dove towards the moving smudges of light that were the Kick-Father and the Bleeding Son. Perhaps the bee would be able to pierce the Giant, the Killer of Beautiful Things and restore the world to its honeyed state. Nectar flows, and so does time…

Slap!… The tender labium… Sucking sweet… Nothing…

Nothing… Bee-eautiful… Boys will be… Poking…

Blades of grass… Shards of glass… Distortion… Trickling laughter red… The heat… The hardness…

Smack!

The Killer

Senseless.

Surrounded by memory and the healing breezzzze…

The usual riot.

***

I started up. I stirred things up. I deserved what I got. And I was bad. I was eight years old! Whose truth is true?

He confused my mother with his charm—and harm; kept us in check, then left with all our goods. Worldly. The bigger eats the smaller in a chain that circles the Earth.

So with much fretful caring, my mother, poor and broken down, did send me away, after all. Whose truth… ? She could no longer provide. She could no longer find it within herself. She could no longer find herself. But, in time, I soon found myself in a home for waifs and wayward youths!

Home…

If only I could sleep through until He comes. The Doctor can give me chloral, the modern Morpheus, C₂HC1₃OH₂O. No! My Un-dead Master comes; I mustn’t be… un- ready.

I will welcome and invite Him in. Beings of His ilk cannot come unless bidden at first to enter. And then nothing can stop Him from slipping through the crack beneath the door or through the bars on the window on moonlight rays. Elemental dust that settles into something long and dark with fiery eyes. Bright avenging beacon;