Tagged: vampires

Wolf in Sheepish Clothing

Flash Fiction Month 2018, Day 27

“Little pigs, little pigs, let me come in!”

“Not by the hair on your chinny-chin-chin!”

“Guys, seriously, could we not do this right now? The delivery guy called while I was in the bath and when I ran out to try and catch him the door swung shut behind me. I’m wearing nothing but a towel and it’s not even a particularly big towel. Could you please just let me in off the street? It’s freezing out here.”

The pigs conferred with one another.

“That sounds like a lie,” said the first little pig.

“People do tend to throw in a lot of extra details when they lie,” offered the second.

“How do we know you’re not going to eat us?” asked the third.

There was a sigh from the other side of the door. “Look, your house is made of straw. If I wanted to eat you, I could knock it down just by breathing on it. But obviously that wouldn’t help me get out of the cold now, would it?”

“I dunno…” said the first pig.

“Come on, guys! What reason could I possibly have for asking you to let me in if I could just smash right through the wall like the Kool-Aid man?”

“Yeah?” said the second pig. “Well what reason could you have for coming to our house out of all the houses on Lollipop Lane? We’re not exactly on good terms, you know.”

“You think this is the first place I’ve tried? Humptey Dumptey was cracking up, the old woman who lives in the shoe just ogled my butt the whole time, and Wee Willie Winkie wouldn’t stop making dick jokes. Happy now?”

“Yeah, fair enough,” said third little pig, “come on in.” And he unlocked the door.

“Hang on,” said the first pig. “Does the wolf even wear clothes?”

“Actually, now that you mention it…”

“Oh, shit. It’s Dracula.”

“Haha!” shouted Dracula as he bounded inside. “Who’s the sucker now?”

If you’ve enjoyed this story, you can find my work from previous Flash Fiction Months collected in these books:

OCR is Not the Only Font Cover REDESIGN (Barbecued Iguana)Red Herring Cover (Barbecued Iguana design)Bionic Punchline eBook CoverOsiris Likes This Cover

Click any cover to find that book in your choice of format.

Are You There Dracula? It’s Me, Van Helsing

Flash Fiction Month 2018, Day 3

Challenge #2: Write story including a scene in which a reconciliation occurs. It must also mention a year in which a historical peace treaty was signed and feature an unreliable narrator.

Abraham Van Helsing moved silently through the crypt, the stench of death all around him. The sanctuary of his nemesis lay ahead, illuminated by the yellow glow of the electric lantern affixed to the breast of his coat. Van Helsing carried a mallet of oak in his right hand and a stake of ash in his left, one held ready to strike the other. The coffin before him loomed closer, closer, as he prepared to tear open its lid and smite his foe.

With the point of his stake, he levered up the wood in one smooth motion and prepared to strike.

Yet the coffin was empty.

With unnatural speed, a shadow darted across the hall, yet protected by providence Van Helsing had the presence of mind to hold up his stake and mallet as a makeshift cross, and the creature halted its advance. Yet it was not yet defeated.

“Ah! Ah! Ah!” laughed Count Dracula. “Your feeble wood means nothing to me, for…” Continue reading

Are You There God? It’s Me, Dracula

Flash Fiction Month 2018, Day 2

“Stay back!” stammered the woman, backing farther into the dark alley. “I’ve got a crucifix and I’m not afraid to use it!”

“Ah! Ah! Ah!” laughed Count Goldschmidt. “Your little piece of wood means nothing to me. For I am a Jewish vampire, and— Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! What gives?!?” He took several steps back, frantically putting out the flames on his sweet vampire cloak.

“Oh, that,” said Count Williams, coalescing out of a handy cloud of bats. “That’s one of the quirks of being a vampire, yeah. You find out that Christianity is the one true religion.”

“Wait, what?” said Count Goldschmidt, still smouldering slightly.

“Yeah, man. It sucks.” Count Williams stopped himself briefly: “No pun intended. But, you know. You go through life pondering all these great mysteries, living with a sense that you can never really grasp the fundamental nature of the universe but appreciating that at least everybody’s in the same boat. And then you get bitten by a vampire, and oh hey! Crucifixes make you burst into flames. So…”

There was an awkward pause.

“Yeah,” continued Count Williams. “Kind of a lot to take in when you’re new, but, you know…” he shrugged. “Unlife goes on.” Continue reading

The Samaritan of Fourth Street

Flash Fiction Month 2014, Day 30

Challenge #14: Write a 666 word urban fantasy story featuring a monk or holy person. It must begin with an argument, and the main character must be marginalised in some way.

“What did I tell you about coming here? Fourth Street’s ours!”

The voice carried all the way up to the window of Vittore’s fifth floor apartment. He glanced down at the street below, but couldn’t see anything out in the open. It was the alley with the bins again. It always was.

“And what did I tell you? This bit ain’t Fourth. You on our turf.”

“The hell I am! Get out of here, dog!”

“What did you just call me?”

“You heard…dog.”

There was a snarl, and a crash as something bashed into the dumpster around the side. Vittore grabbed his keys from the bowl, locking the door with a trembling hand. He knew that the fight would be over before he’d even hobbled to the elevator, but he had been a priest once, and despite—perhaps even due to—having been cast out of the church, he could not simply sit inside like the rest of the residents and pretend not to hear. The doors pinged open, and he stepped inside.

When the elevator reached the ground floor, Vittore was surprised to find that he did not need to go any farther. A girl in a battered grey hoodie was sitting on a bench by the main doors. Vittore’s neighbour Mrs. Rennolls was standing over her.

“You can’t just walk out of here.” She said it with force. “I’m calling an ambulance.”

Vittore stepped forward. “I’m sure that won’t be necessary.” He put on his most convincing voice, taking care to hold eye contact with his neighbour. “I’ll see to it that she gets home safely.”

“There’s gangs out there!” Mrs. Rennolls waved an arthritic hand towards the doors. “And they’re dangerous! All that fighting…”

Vittore had been momentarily taken aback—when he had a mind to persuade someone, they usually came around immediately—but he recovered quickly. Where polite persuasion failed, there were other methods. He stepped towards Mrs. Rennolls, baring his teeth. “You would do well not to interfere with what you don’t understand.”

Mrs. Rennolls shrunk back. “Alright, dear.” She started towards the elevator. “If you’re sure.”

Vittore waited until the doors closed and the floor number started counting up before speaking to the girl. “Are you hurt?”

“Just a little, Clanfather.” She unfolded her arms, revealing a sharpened length of dowel jutting out from just beneath her ribcage. When she tugged it out, the wound did not bleed.

“If that had been a little higher,” said Vittore, sternly, “you would be dust right now. Was that one trespasser really worth risking your life over?”

“It wasn’t about that one,” she replied. “Everywhere we go, they’re watching out for us. Everyone’s watching out for us. But they only stand out at the full moon.”

“I know, child.” Vittore placed a hand on her shoulder. “So choose your battles better. It will be a full moon tonight, but now you’re in no shape to defend the clan.”

She stared at her scruffy canvas sneakers. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ll do better next time.”

Vittore spent the evening quietly watching TV. He would have liked to read, but his eyes weren’t what they used to be and the large print section at the library had little to offer him. He considered that he wasn’t much help to the clan now either. Unfortunately, for him there was no next time. The most he could provide now was a stern word or some brief advice, and even then there weren’t many opportunities. That was why, when he heard a muffled thud from the apartment next door, he went to investigate.

“Mrs. Rennolls?” he shouted through the wood.

“In here!”

Vittore reached for the handle, then hesitated. “Are you inviting me in?” he asked to make sure.

“Yes. It’s open.”

Vittore stepped inside and found Mrs. Rennolls collapsed in front of the sofa, tufts of fur sprouting from her cardigan, claws sprouting from her fingertips.

Yellow eyes looked up. “I think I’ve thrown my back out…somehow. Little help?”


If you’ve enjoyed this story, you can find my work from Flash Fiction Month 2012 and 2013 collected in OCR is Not the Only Font and Red Herring respectively.