The Vampire emerged out of the shadows. I was ready; I knew he was coming. I was wearing my garlic wreath and had a crucifix handy. “Evening, Bela,” I said.
He snarled, showing me his fangs. I have sought you out. You will answer my questions.
You are a writer. But you do not write about me. Why not?
“You were a fad, Bela. You ran your course. I write western novels. Not fantasy. Of course, you’re doing pretty well in some Television series.”
Paugh! Where are the other writers? How did you become a writer?
“It comes natural to me, I guess. My mother was a story-teller of considerable power. I’ve been self-published so far. Now I have an agreement with Oak Tree Press.”
Oak Tree? He drew his cape across his body. I do not like the Oak Tree. What is this Press?
“It’s okay. It's a publishing house, a fine outfit. Not a tree. They are gonna publish my westerns.”
Silly novels. Poor fiction. Not worth reading.
“Yes, they are! Western novels tell the story of America. Pushing onward into a new life, relying on your own resources to solve your problems. Starting anew. That’s what we Americans do. Horses and cattle, oil wells, high finance.”
I do not care for your longhorn cattle. Ouch! Sheep are better.
“Careful where you say that. In some parts you… Well, I guess you wouldn’t worry, would you?. Say, I’m working on a story about New Orleans. Would that suit you?”
Ah, New Orleans! Not exactly Transylvania. I have a cousin there – a silly fellow. Fine old buildings. Too much water.
“The last hurricane cause you trouble?”
My cousin lost his bed. The vampire flung his cloak wide, swirling it about his shoulders. I must fly. I will await your novels.
I watched him float away into the darkness. His voice echoed behind him when he vanished. I will search out this Oak Tree Press.
May 8, 2013
"All men's miseries derive from not being able to sit in a quiet room alone." - Blaise Pascal.