Funny stories in under 500 words.

Vampire Blues

It’s not easy, mentally, being a vampire. We may not be frightened of dying; after all, when you’re a two-thousand year old supernatural creature who has been through the cycle a couple of times, you learn that death is not something to be scared of. Now, the howling mob may seem frightening, and the flaming torches rather hurt your eyes after a decade or two of dark, but people never seemed to do the stake bit right. If they did the stories would be a hell of a lot shorter.

In a way the whole wooden-stake-through-the heart business is unfair; werewolves, for instance, need silver, which is a lot harder for your average sullen peasant to get hold of. After all, ‘wooden stake’ is just a fancy word for ‘pointy stick.’ And the less said about being vulnerable to garlic the better. There’s a reason that there are no French vampires.

But still, us vampires don’t actually want to die just because they aren’t scared of death. I’m not scared of fleas, but that didn’t stop me from banning the bloody werewolves from my castle. Even if they howled about it. And so, fed up of the way undeath was going at the moment, I ended up sitting opposite the Mayor of the village, trying to convince him that I didn’t want his, or anyone else’s, blood, and therefore a violent mob was quite unnecessary. My arguments might have been convincing, for he seemed sympathetic, but still replied in a mournful tone;

‘Look, that might be true, or it mayn’t, but I can’t just leave a vampire in the village. That’ll breach all sort of health and safety legislation, and that’s more than my jobs worth.’

I saw the opportunity and pounced. Metaphorically, of course.

‘But waving lit torches and pitchforks around can’t be too safe either,’ I said. ‘You’ll get a fine for it, at the very least.’

He looked at me seriously.

‘Oh, we’re not planning to do any of that old stuff. We’re going to get professionals in. People who know their way around a pointy stick. It will be safe as houses.’

‘Not for me.’

He paused.

‘No,’ he conceded; ‘but that can’t really be helped.’

And now it seemed that there was nothing for me to say. They would kill me, and damn the consequences. I suppose there was too much at stake. The very thought of it made my fight-or-flight response start to kick in, and I felt as if my head was suddenly too small for my brain, and my chest seemed too tight. The Mayor must have noticed the onset, because he leaned forwards, mouthing a question that my ears no longer could fully decipher.

‘Is there something wrong?’ he asked. I shook my head, but the curious sensation only increased, leaving me gasping for breath as the need to escape overtook me. And a sudden desire to use echo-location.

There was no longer any doubt: I was definitely going batty.

The author publishes short humor under the pen-name Severely Odd. His work is available on Amazon and via Smashwords. , ,

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