Sunday, October 26, 2014


Tomas wandered the exquisite doll house mansion. How real it was.... the wall paper... the sconces... He began to think that maybe it was real. Perhaps worm holes are like tornadoes. Maybe they can touch down anywhere and suck up whole domiciles? Who knows? Maybe even planets? Maybe even galaxies. We might all be in the wrong place and not ever know it.

He found the room where the 'uncle' person slept and slipped in. The shades were drawn against a low, amber radiance from the fireplace in the dog-woman's boudoir. But vampires don't need light. The man slept, covered in a fine quilt. He looked drugged. Maybe they gave them something? Maybe it was in the food? 

Tomas bent low to feed. His touch was oh, so soft. He made not a sound. How easy it was to pierce the skin. The man never stirred. His blood flowed smooth and warm. After two hundred heartbeats it was over. The man was dead and his body disappeared into 'cool' blue flames. Nothing else burned, not even the quilt. In the morning they'd find the greasy residue. But canines have a superior sense of smell. He didn't think of that.

The meal strengthened him. His night-folk abilities flickered back. He sublimated through the walls of the doll house, levitated down to the floor, slipped under the door and ran to the stairs. He heard sounds. Not human sounds. Beings were conversing somewhere down below. Giant canine beings. Tomas climbed down, holding onto the nap of the carpet. that went on for maybe three treads. Then he felt it. He knew he could do it. He climbed over the edge, stood between two spindles and looked down. How far the hall floor was. Sixty stories. Like jumping off William Penn's statue atop Philadelphia's 'wedding cake' of a city hall. But he'd done that too. So he leaped out, closed his eyes and flew. Now vampire sublimation is not true flight. They do not float on air. They pass through the very molecules of the atmosphere and are upheld by magnetic resonance. Why didn't he pass through the floor? He didn't want to. It's as simple as that.

There were beings in the dining room. Candlelight shed a romantic glow. Dinner was over. The males had gone off to discuss canine politics, or some such thing, but the females remained, chatting quietly, as they engaged in crafts. He climbed up the velvet draperies to get a better view, careful to stay hidden in the voluminous folds. They chose leftover humans from the large serving bowls. Some mature. Some just children. Each was lain on a cotton wool pad and completely covered with a similar cotton wool 'blanket.' Then they passed around a small cruet of some camphorous fluid and dowsed each victim til dead. After that each tiny corpse was carefully dressed in detailed garments taken from a small pile next to each 'artist.' Upon completion the dead bodies were arranged on special backings. Small straight pins held them in place. Each sealed under rectangular panes of glass. Like mounted butterflies.

Tomas watch transfixed by it all. Then he saw one, the blond, Afghan looking bitch from upstairs, say something and gesture toward the ceiling. The others looked and nodded.

They went back to crafting til all the people were gone. If one wasn't exactly dead from the camphorous compound, the pins took care of that. Juveniles have such strong lungs you know.

Tomas raced upstairs to warn the others. Even amorality apparently has it's limit.


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