A month ago today I was at Peterborough's arts high school, talking to students there about writing, my writing, and other various (occasionally strange) things they asked during the Q&A. During my second session, I mentioned that I've so far written two song-inspired short stories: one about ghosts, and one about vampires. This is the latter; I've decided to share it here, since one young lady came up later to ask about it.
In case you aren't familiar with Joni Mitchell's song "Carey", you might want to check it out here before reading the story. Lyrics alone are here.
Note: I have this thing where, when I write a vampire story, I don't actually use the word 'vampire'. With this one, it's okay, because neither did Ms. Mitchell.
Down to the Mermaid
B. D. Ferguson
The grey streak in her hair had grown to more than a finger’s width. Ignoring it wasn’t working anymore. She was starting to show her age, and she couldn’t help but resent the old man for it.
The purple circles under her eyes didn’t help her mood. She hadn’t slept again last night, too full of shadowy thoughts and a gnawing restlessness. All night the wind itself had seemed to murmur promises, whispering across her skin of someplace more than this. She ran the brush through her hair once more, hiding the traitorous silver under glossy brown, and tossed the brush onto the vanity with more force than necessary. The clatter startled something from under the bed, and she spun, hissing half a gasp.
It took her eyes a moment to find the source; the gecko had already scuttled beneath the breeze-rippled curtains and had frozen in place, a ghost of itself beneath the filmy fabric.
She rose and crossed into the mid-afternoon sun striping the hardwood floor. Pausing, she knelt slowly – ha, I’d like to see you do this, old man – squinting against the brightness as warmth flooded her skin. The sun was the best thing about this place. Well, the sun and sometimes, like today when the wind was right, the sea air. The geckoes she could’ve lived without.
This little intruder, perhaps thinking it was safe beneath the curtains, diaphanous though they were, didn’t flee as her hand neared. Its eyes were the only moving things: they roved fitfully, lighting only a second on her, the wall, the floor, and the escape promised by the doorway ahead. Her hand darted once, and caught the slender body just as it tensed to move.
She’d caught them before, but was surprised again at how light these creatures were, as if made of folded slick paper. Claws were tiny pinpricks as this one grasped at her finger, trying to gain a wriggling purchase. Its eyes jigged in panic, and a small, neat tongue darted out to test the air. All of a sudden it stopped struggling and just waited, those crystal eyes seeming to catalogue every feature of her face: forehead, eyes, nose, lips...
It reminded her of the old man. Her fingers spasmed, stopping just short of crushing the poor thing in her fist. She stepped forward and threw the gecko out the patio door. It curled and twisted wildly in the air as it flew. For a moment she envied its freedom. Then it dropped out of sight beyond the deck. She drew the door closed, scraping it over the grit of sand in the runners – the stuff got everywhere, no matter how often she scrubbed under her nails, no matter how often Martina swept – and pulled the sheers across. The sunlight dimmed a little, softening the edges of the big room.
It was too bright to take a nap. She was too restless to eat. She’d read every book in the library seventeen times. They’d had to get rid of the piano because of the damned sand everywhere.
I could go to Amsterdam. I could go to Rome.
She was tempted to throw herself on the clean white linen of the bedclothes and sulk like a teenager. What else was there to do?
What, indeed? Find out what she did next here...
*No geckoes were harmed in the making of this story.
In case you aren't familiar with Joni Mitchell's song "Carey", you might want to check it out here before reading the story. Lyrics alone are here.
Note: I have this thing where, when I write a vampire story, I don't actually use the word 'vampire'. With this one, it's okay, because neither did Ms. Mitchell.
Down to the Mermaid
B. D. Ferguson
The grey streak in her hair had grown to more than a finger’s width. Ignoring it wasn’t working anymore. She was starting to show her age, and she couldn’t help but resent the old man for it.
The purple circles under her eyes didn’t help her mood. She hadn’t slept again last night, too full of shadowy thoughts and a gnawing restlessness. All night the wind itself had seemed to murmur promises, whispering across her skin of someplace more than this. She ran the brush through her hair once more, hiding the traitorous silver under glossy brown, and tossed the brush onto the vanity with more force than necessary. The clatter startled something from under the bed, and she spun, hissing half a gasp.
It took her eyes a moment to find the source; the gecko had already scuttled beneath the breeze-rippled curtains and had frozen in place, a ghost of itself beneath the filmy fabric.
She rose and crossed into the mid-afternoon sun striping the hardwood floor. Pausing, she knelt slowly – ha, I’d like to see you do this, old man – squinting against the brightness as warmth flooded her skin. The sun was the best thing about this place. Well, the sun and sometimes, like today when the wind was right, the sea air. The geckoes she could’ve lived without.
This little intruder, perhaps thinking it was safe beneath the curtains, diaphanous though they were, didn’t flee as her hand neared. Its eyes were the only moving things: they roved fitfully, lighting only a second on her, the wall, the floor, and the escape promised by the doorway ahead. Her hand darted once, and caught the slender body just as it tensed to move.
She’d caught them before, but was surprised again at how light these creatures were, as if made of folded slick paper. Claws were tiny pinpricks as this one grasped at her finger, trying to gain a wriggling purchase. Its eyes jigged in panic, and a small, neat tongue darted out to test the air. All of a sudden it stopped struggling and just waited, those crystal eyes seeming to catalogue every feature of her face: forehead, eyes, nose, lips...
It reminded her of the old man. Her fingers spasmed, stopping just short of crushing the poor thing in her fist. She stepped forward and threw the gecko out the patio door. It curled and twisted wildly in the air as it flew. For a moment she envied its freedom. Then it dropped out of sight beyond the deck. She drew the door closed, scraping it over the grit of sand in the runners – the stuff got everywhere, no matter how often she scrubbed under her nails, no matter how often Martina swept – and pulled the sheers across. The sunlight dimmed a little, softening the edges of the big room.
It was too bright to take a nap. She was too restless to eat. She’d read every book in the library seventeen times. They’d had to get rid of the piano because of the damned sand everywhere.
I could go to Amsterdam. I could go to Rome.
She was tempted to throw herself on the clean white linen of the bedclothes and sulk like a teenager. What else was there to do?
What, indeed? Find out what she did next here...
*No geckoes were harmed in the making of this story.