Writing for Fun
June 2019
Twilight - Pete Norman
The life of a vampire is far from easy . . .
Ah, I can see by the look in your eyes that you do not believe me. Because you have read the book, have you not? A fairy tale created by that simpleton, Bram Stoker. Fantasy, pure fantasy, I can assure you – every single slanderous word of it. But you have read it, of course, so now you ‘know’ everything there is to know about vampires . . .
Well, allow me to disabuse you of that delusion.
Stoker was rich and over-indulged and in Victorian times such people went off boozing and whoring their way across Europe on their Grand Tours. They did all of the obligatory sites – Florence, Rome, Pompeii, Venice – but not one of these Victorian ‘gentlemen’ went anywhere near Transylvania, did they? What possible reason could they ever have had to cross those mountains to go to such a ‘bleak and desolate place’ as that? And, thus, they experienced nothing of our country first hand. However, on their tours they absorbed the culture and they listened to the gossip and the old wives tales and the scaremongering and they believed it – every single fanciful word of it.
Stoker clearly returned from his tour with his head full of fairy tales – made up stories – salacious sorties into the realm of fantasy and horror. And when he got back he wrote ‘The Book’. What an apocalyptic day that was for our kind – we were vilified and cursed and feared and persecuted . . . and hunted down.
There are so few of us left now that life, believe me, is very difficult indeed. Forced to abandon our castles, the homes of our ancestors since time immemorial. Forced to flee from the country of our birth – to flee like common criminals to lands such as this – to live out our lives in secrecy, in more mundane but less obvious dwellings, far from the pitchfork and scythe wielding thugs.
Please excuse me for one moment . . . waitress, some further refreshment, if you please. A large glass of your finest ale for my good friend here and I will have my usual – a Bloody Mary.
Now, what was I saying? Oh, yes – and that is how our paths have become intertwined tonight, you and I, a meeting by pure happenstance in this quiet little village, in this quaint little hostelry, before a smoking fire, enjoying a fraternal beverage. You have stumbled across my refuge, my sanctuary where I while away the hours in quiet contemplation of how my life could have been had it not been for that contemptible man.
However, you must understand that our lives are nothing like the accounts recorded in that awful book, or in the films that followed – Hammer House of Horrors at their most inventive . . . and inaccurate. Ridiculous films depicting old men in tweed jackets wielding a Bible and a crucifix, hunting down the evil monsters in their lair; descending into dark, musty cellars; lifting the coffin lids and driving a wooden stake through their heart – which, we are led to believe, is a certain way of killing a vampire. . . and which, by coincidence, is also a certain way of killing you or any one of your many friends or acquaintances, if you were but to give it some thought.
Then there is the crucifix, or, if you believe the films, any two pieces of timber fashioned roughly in a cruciform shape for the purpose of striking terror and subduing the monster. What utter nonsense! We would certainly not be able to venture very far from our homes if that shape alone was capable of stopping us in our tracks.
And what about the mirrors? – everyone knows that a mirror does not reflect a vampire’s image and yet we are always portrayed as immaculately groomed without a hair out of place . . . all of which we appear to achieve without the assistance of a mirror? I think not.
You see, everything you think you know about vampires is pure fantasy and speculation. Except of course, the blood. Yes, I have to concede that we do have a predilection for the nectar of life – but in that we are not alone. Many of your cultures drink blood: The African Maasai drink blood diluted with cow’s milk; the Monguls would derive their legendary strength by drinking the blood of their horses; countless cultures enjoy Blood Sausage, even if in this country they are reduced to naming it Black Pudding in order to hide that disturbing fact from the unwary . . . but are such as these labelled as vampires? Certainly not. And what about those who enjoy their steak extra rare or those who delight in that superb delicacy Steak Tartare – a dish created by vampires for vampires and best enjoyed with a liberal serving of a rich red sauce . . .
Mmmm . . .
However, I digress . . . in the films vampires are depicted creeping surreptitiously into the boudoirs of beautiful, scantily dressed virgins and drawing the precious nectar from its warm, pulsating source and I have to confess that my grandfather was accused of that very crime. My father was forced to intervene to protect the family reputation. He founded a Blood Donor Clinic.
You would be amazed at just how many people flock to his mobile blood bank and lay back, quite voluntarily, while Igor drains an armful of the crimson delight.
And the rest, so they say, is history – there is no longer any necessity for us to inconvenience the local population – and just in time, I might add, as beautiful, scantily dressed virgins are becoming a rare commodity in this permissive society.
And everyone knows, of course, that we can fly. We can turn ourselves into bats to move covertly through the populace . . . No, we can not. I confess that my aunt Mathilde was a bit batty and that cousin Vlad once made a tragic attempt to fly from the castle battlements after consuming LSD but the cold, hard fact is that we are strictly bipedal.
The truth is that every ‘truth’ that this man, Bram Stoker, inveigles into your understanding is a complete and utter lie and he compounds and secures those lies by proposing that vampires themselves are the liars; that we are masters of deception, that we secure our control over the unwary by prevarication. By this, the most cunning artifice of all, he ensures that nothing a vampire might say in his defence can be trusted. However, you appear to be a man of reason and intellect and I am certain that you can see that I am but a man, just like you and that I have nothing whatsoever to gain by falsehood.
Now, I will expose to you one final pernicious myth and then I will spare you from further complaint. Sunlight. Everybody ‘knows’ that we are fatally compromised when exposed to sunlight, do they not? The mere hint of a ray of sunlight through a carefully exposed window is enough to cause a vampire to scream out in agony and for his skin to desiccate until the slightest breeze blows the last remaining dust of the monster to the four winds. Rubbish, pure unmitigated rubbish. I admit we do have very sensitive skin. We do tan and we tan quite badly, so we tend to avoid the harshest of sunlight, which does become somewhat of an inconvenience when attempting to pursue a diurnal existence. We therefore tend to gravitate towards a crepuscular lifestyle – sunrise and sunset are much more expedient to our needs.
Myself? Well, just take a look out of the window, over there, at the soft ethereal light of the sky as the sun slips quietly down below the horizon, at the multi-hued reflection of the last dying rays in the atmosphere. I love twilight best of all. For me there is no pleasure greater than to cover up with a factor fifty and to sit upon a grassy mount and to watch a beautiful sunset . . .
Now, I must confess that all this talking has engendered quite an appetite. Would it please you to take a walk with me . . . out in the twilight . . . for a bite to eat?