The Painting: Where The Medium Is The Message
He looked at the woman in the painting.
The painting of the dark haired woman in the beautiful white dress.
She was holding a yellow rose in her hand and smelling the scent.
A light from an oil lamp or fireplace (not visible in the painting) seemed to cast a reddish orange reflective glow on the woman’s beautiful face.
The swirls of her delicate dress accentuated the curves of her body.
She looked sad- the woman.
How he longed to reach out and touch her.
How he longed to reach out and hold her.
Tell her that she was loved.
That he loved her.
That she was not alone in the world.
He reached out his hand towards the painting.
* * *
The dark haired woman in the white dress looked up at the painting.
The man in the painting seemed to be reaching out towards her.
He looked at her with warm and loving and compassionate eyes.
He seemed to want to touch her.
To hold her.
To tell her that she was loved.
That he loved her.
That she was not alone in the world.
She reached out her hand towards the painting.
* * *
-A short story written by Christopher Van Helsing
Wednesday evening October 12th 2011
inspired by a painting by the Spanish artist Gomperez
a painting that once belonged to my dad
now belongs to me.
My favourite painting of his entire art art collection.
Mazdare The Magician
Mazdare the Magician.
The name and the face gazed out from the poster of the Pantages Theatre.
He had long dark hair, piercing dark eyes and a dark moustache.
In the poster, he doffed his magician’s hat (from which many a rabbit had made a quick exit) and held his magic wand.
Stars circled around him in the poster.
Mazdare the Magician.
“My gosh, you look awfully familiar,” a distinguished voice spoke to the poster and the speaker of that voice doffed his hat.
“Ah, I can see why,” the speaker pointed his finger at the face on the poster and took a sip from his bottle of bourbon, “I believe I see your face in the mirror every morning when I shave. That is after I’ve shaved. I believe I have a lot more stubble on my face before I shave.”
Mazdare the Magician laughed and stumbled along the alleyway before reaching the street.
“Now, the motel is… where is the motel?” Mazdare licked his finger and held his wet finger in the air to tell which way the non-existent wind was blowing, “ah… this way.”
He pointed and moved up the street.
He stopped to take a leak against a lamp post.
As he urinated, he sang, “Old Man River. That old man river… yes, old man river keeps rolling along.”
When he felt no more coming out, he looked down.
“Has old man river finally stopped rolling along?” He looked down and when he decided that Old Man River had indeed stopped rolling along, he put it back and pulled up his zipper.
“Strange,” he thought, “I must be in China because that river sure looked like the Yellow River while it was flowing.”
He continued on down the street towards the motel.
He passed the tavern which was right next to the motel.
He looked at the flashing neon lights of the tavern.
And then at the flashing neon lights of the motel.
Carlotta would be waiting for him on the second floor of the motel.
“Just one drink,” he spoke to the neon light in the tavern window, “just one drinky pooh. I’m sure Carlotta wouldn’t mind.”
He entered the tavern.
Sitting up at the bar was a very attractive red head in a short skirt and dominatrix boots.
“That looks like my type of woman,” he threw the bourbon bottle he had been carrying into a nearby trash can.
Seated next to her was a greasy looking guy in a plaid sports jacket and wearing glasses.
“I hate guys like that,” Mazdare huffed.
He walked up to the nerd in the plaid sports jacket and held his hand at the back of the chair.
“Excuse me,” Mazdare smiled politely, “but has this seat been taken?”.
“Why, yes it has,” replied the nerd.
Mazdare pulled the chair sideways and the nerd fell off to the floor, “You’re right. It has been taken. It’s been taken by me.”
Mazdare sat on the chair and put his hand on the red head’s crossed tan pantyhose legs.
“A pleasure to meet you my dear,” he patted her knee.
“Are you always so brazen?” the red head looked at him in shock.
“I’m only brazen when I’m well cooked in a brazier,” Mazdare smiled at her in reply.
“Who the Hell do you think you are?” the red head asked while the nerd on the floor queried, “Anybody get the license plate number of that truck?”.
He reached behind her ear and pulled out a business card seemingly from behind her ear.
“Mazdare the Magician,” he smiled, “like the card says.”
Indeed the card said MAZDARE THE MAGICIAN.
The woman looked at the card and then at the handsome dark haired dark eyed stranger in front of her.
“I’ve heard about your show,” she said, “They say you’re absolutely incredible. They say you make magic seem so real.”
“Magic is real,” he drew himself closer to her and looked in her eyes.
“Well…” she paused.
“My favourite trick,” he drew himself ever closer towards her, “is to take my big wand and to stick it into holes. You’ll never know what surprises await you inside a hole.”
“I don’t… I…” she edged away from him.
Mazdare brought out a pack of cards from his pocket.
“These are cards,” he said stating the obvious, “they’ve never been open before…”
he flashed the whole deck before her like a skilled Vegas casino dealer, “as you can see, this is not a trick deck. Now…” he handed her the deck, “Pick a card. Any card.”
She picked a card.
He leaned back.
“Now, look at the card,” he commanded, “look at the card very intently. Concentrate on it. Memorize it. Never forget the card.”
He gazed intently into her eyes as she gazed intently at the card.
“Is the number and suite of the card emblazoned into your brain?” he asked.
“Yes,” she whispered.
He handed her the deck and said, “Now put the card back in the deck.”
She did so.
“Shuffle the deck yourself,” he helped himself to a bottle of beer from a waitress’s passing loaded tray.
She shuffled the deck and then handed the deck back to Mazdare.
Mazdare then re-shuffled the deck himself.
“Now what was the card you chose?” he asked her.
“Aren’t you supposed to tell me?” she smiled at him.
“Well I suppose I could tell you it was the 6 of Clubs,” he smiled at her, “but where’s the fun in that? What was the card you chose?”.
“The 6 of Clubs,” she gasped.
“Pick the top card from the top of the deck,” he said.
She did so.
And flipped it over.
She gasped again.
“The 6 of Clubs,” she gazed at him thunderstruck, “how did you do that?”.
“Magic,” he smiled at her.
He looked at his watch.
“Oops…” Mazdare frowned, “I’m late for an appointment.”
He looked at the redhead, kissed her hand and bowed, “It’s been a very charming evening. Hope to see you again in the very near future.”
He ran from the tavern and up to the 2nd level of the motel using the outside steps and outside walkway.
He pounded on Door 229.
A fiery eyed sultry sexy and steamy brunette Latina woman in a red dress opened the door and screamed at him, “You bastard!”.
“Now that is very unfair,” he wagged his finger at her as he spoke, “I’ll have you know my parents were both legally married when I was conceived and when I was born. Making me grow up a misfit in this society of increasingly common law partnerships.”
“I suppose you think just because I’m a whore that my time isn’t worth anything,” she slapped his face, “but my time is precious. I have other clients besides you, you know.”
“But none who are as charming as I am,” Mazdare started to take off his shoes.
“But we can’t do it now,” she said.
“What are you ticked off at me for being a few minutes late?” Mazdare held up his hands in protest.
Carlotta opened the bedroom door and there stood a little girl about 8 years old.
“What is a child doing here?” Mazdare asked in shock.
“She’s my niece,” Carlotta answered, “my sister was put in jail this evening and will no doubt be remanded for compulsory treatment in drug rehab by the judge tomorrow morning. Social services brought Andrea to me.”
“Social Services left her in the care of the town whore?” Mazdare was incredulous.
“I’m her nearest relative,” she said.
“So because of your crackhead sister, I won’t be allowed to unclog my pipes tonight?” Mazdare raised his arms in disbelief.
“That’s right,” Carlotta nodded as she smoothed her dress.
“This is outrageous,” Mazdare kicked over a garbage can, “I’m no Vulcan like in Star Trek. I just don’t mate every 7 years like they did. No wonder Mr. Spock’s ears were so pointed. It was all backed up that far.”
He slammed the door behind him, walked along the motel’s outside walkway and walked down the motel’s outside stairwell.
He then walked in a huff through the motel parking lot and as he did so, Carlotta came running out of her motel room, leaned over the balcony in her low-cut red dress and screamed at him, “The next time you think you’re perfect, try walking on water.”
Mazdare immediately walked over to the motel swimming pool and started walking on top of the water in the pool.
“How the Hell are you able to do that?” Carlotta screamed at him in wonder.
“It’s magic,” Mazdare held out his arms in triumph as he stood on top of the water in the pool.
“Magicians,” she shook her head and went back in the motel room and slammed the door.
* * *
It was Mazdare’s magic act inside the Pantages Theatre.
Mazdare held a small paper cage with a dove between his hands and then invited members of the audience to likewise come and hold their hands against the cage.
Suddenly Mazdare slammed his hand down on top of the cage and poof! the cage was gone.
Then Mazdare raised his hat and a dove flew out from inside his hat.
The audience applauded.
* * *
As Mazdare left the back stage of the Pantages Theatre, a small boy probably about 8 or 9 was blubbering on the steps outside the back door.
“What are you snivelling about, you obnoxious little brat?” Mazdare asked.
“Is that any way to talk to paying members of your audience?” the boy bawled.
“Hey, I have to pretend to like kids inside the theatre,” Mazdare reached for a bottle of bourbon from underneath his cape, “but out here in the real world, I don’t have to like you, you bawling screaming whiny cretins with your runny noses.”
The boy continued to sob.
“What are you bawling about anyways?” Mazdare asked.
“I know how you did the trick with the dove inside the cage,” the boy cried, “I read magic books. The dove inside the cage died. That dove that flew out from inside your hat was another dove. The dove inside the cage died. Died for the sake of your magic act. I should report you to PETA,” the boy snivelled.
“PETA?” Mazdare blinked in disbelief, “those people are terrorists!”.
“Terrorists?” the boy looked up at Mazdare.
“Yes,” Mazdare nodded, “they had the audacity to steal a steak sandwich from my hands once and to call me a cow killer.”
“Well, now you’re a dove killer,” the boy bawled.
* * *
The next day inside the theatre.
Mazdare asked for a volunteer.
He noticed several hands go up.
And one of them was the boy who had been bawling outside the back stage door of the theatre the day before.
Mazdare smiled.
“Come up, lad,” he invited.
The boy’s mother look worried but the boy ran up on the stage.
He was then placed inside a box.
And soon Mazdare and his lovely blonde female assistant in the slit sparkly sequined cream coloured evening dress started sticking swords all through the box.
The boy’s mother looked pensive.
Mazdare’s assistant then opened the box and a little girl stepped out.
The audience burst into applause.
* * *
Outside the back stage of the theatre, the boy’s mother waited with the little girl.
“Where is my son?” the boy’s mother demanded to know as Mazdare emerged from the stage door.
“That is your son,” Mazdare pointed at the girl.
“But she’s a girl,” the mother protested.
“Still, she’s now your child,” Mazdare threw his cloak around himself, “As a woman named Carlotta recently told me… let me rephrase that… recently implied, I’m not perfect. So Madam, let me tell you, I’m not perfect. I’m not perfect. And neither is magic.”
“You mean you’ve turned my son into a girl permanently?” the woman gasped.
“Madam,” Mazdare threw his cloak around his neck and then rubbed his hands together with glee, “think of it as an experiment in transgenderism gone wild.”
He doffed his hat towards the woman, winked at the girl and then walked down the back alley towards the open street.
* * *
The old man looked out the window of his motel room in Room 228.
Outside he noticed standing in the motel rose garden was that mysterious individual that was always visiting the woman in the room next door.
The man looked at his old Coca-Cola neon clock from the 1950s. It said 12 Midnight.
He then looked back at the dark haired figure dressed in black.
The man seemed to be digging a deep hole in the garden where he dropped several bags that seemed to contain meat and bones or at least so the old man concluded from his vantage point.
The figure in black then used the shovel to put dirt back over the hole.
When he had finished, the figure in black doffed his hat towards the hole, put the shovel he was carrying in the trunk of a car and then headed upstairs.
The old man’s neighbour Carlotta greeted the dark figure at the door of Room 229.
She wore a tight fitting red evening dress that accentuated every curve in her body.
“I found your niece a new home,” Mazdare the Magician said as he stood at the door.
“Oh, darling,” Carlotta embraced and kissed him.
She kicked the door closed with one of her red spiked stiletto high-heeled shoes.
The old man put on the late movie on the TV, grabbed a beer and sat down and watched.
No use going to sleep he figured.
The noise those two made as they did it.
And no doubt they would be at it all night.
Like always.
-A short story written by Christopher Van Helsing
Monday evening June 20th 2011.
The Nun Who Danced To Judas
Sister Agnes stood in the hallway of the orphanage and looked at the statue of Jesus with His Sacred Heart.
The nun was standing in spiked stiletto high-heels which was unusual for a nun of her order.
She reached down and ripped the bottom part of her robe from her ankle up to her pelvis.
She ripped it on both sides this way.
The rips exposed black silk nylons that she was wearing underneath her robe.
She then started to dance in front of the statue of the Sacred Heart Jesus.
She danced and she sang.
She sang,
I’m just a Holy Fool
Oh, baby, it’s so cruel
But I’m still in love with Judas, baby
I’m just a Holy Fool
Oh, baby, it’s so cruel
But I’m still in love with Judas, baby.
She spun around on her stilettos and her nun’s robe whirled like a belly dancer’s dress as she sensuously moved her arms back and forth.
She approached the statue of the Sacred Heart Jesus and kissed it on the lips with her ruby rouge red lipstick lips.
She sang,
I wanna love you,
But something’s pulling me away from you…
She then turned her back on the statue and embraced nothing but air in her arms as she sang,
Jesus is my virtue…
She then opened her eyes which she had closed and her eyes seemed to be looking at something that she was embracing but would have appeared invisible to any other observer that might have been standing in the hallway.
She sang as she embraced the nothingness she caressed in her arms,
And Judas is the demon I cling to
I cling to
She then opened the door and entered the room where all the young children were sleeping in the orphanage.
She lifted her robes and pulled a huge butcher knife from a black lingerie garter belt tied around her right knee.
She then went from bed to bed quickly slitting the throats of all the children- baby, toddler, boy, girl, 6-year-old, 7-year-old.
Each time she slit a throat, she’d click her heels together and sing,
I’m just a Holy Fool,
Oh, baby, it’s so cruel
But I’m still in love with Judas, baby
I’m just a Holy Fool,
Oh, baby, it’s so cruel
But I’m still in love with Judas, baby.
She then left the nursery after she had slain all the children, threw the statue of the Sacred Heart Jesus in the hallway to the floor and broke it as she sang,
Jesus is my virtue…
She then went running outside the orphanage into the garden where a tall dark haired handsome stranger waited by the fountain whose top was a cherubic angel with an arrow.
The very beautiful 30-year-old nun went running into the arms of the tall dark haired handsome stranger and kissed him passionately on the lips.
She then caressed his neck and embraced him tightly singing,
And Judas is the demon I cling to
I cling to
As she did so, she kissed him on the cheek oblivious to the fact that the tall dark haired handsome stranger was now turning into a red reptilian thing with bat like wings and clawed talons and spiked tail.
The thing burst into flames turning Sister Agnes into flames with it.
A two-year-old who had escaped the slaughter in the nursery by hiding under the bed poked his head out from under the bed and said in baby talk,
Ga-Ga, Ga-Ga.
The End.
-A short story written by Christopher Van Helsing
Sunday evening June 19th 2011.
Cosmopolis 2029 A.D.
Cosmopolis 2029 A.D.
Earth’s greatest metropolis.
Where the holographic image ads reached the sky.
And the sides of the tallest skyscrapers served as the planet’s most expensive billboards.
Where people flew in their aeromobiles anytime of day or night.
The number of people killed in aeromobile crashes so far this year: 4.
Still a lot better than the days 20 years ago when people were killed driving their own ground-based automobiles.
For all the jokes about computer malfunctions, the computers drove aeromobiles better than erratic human drivers with their various neuroses and emotional outbursts in the days of petroleum driven ground transportation.
The Singularity was a triumph as far as traffic safety went.
You just told the computer where you wanted to go and taking note of where you are, it flew you there in the most direct and safest possible manner.
Taking note of all the other aeromobiles out there and flying you there safely.
Travis Albion Private Eye was parked at ground level in his aeromobile.
He looked up at the sky and noticed with amusement as a group of young male teen passengers in their aeromobile flew directly into the low-cut top of the low-cut dress of the woman in the skyhigh holographic beer commercial ad.
“Just another Saturday night,” Travis Albion mused to himself as he smoked his smokeless cigarette- big on flavour and without the smoke and the carcinogens of tobacco products past.
Abion put the bottle of bourbon to his lips and took a deep sip.
How different from his father’s day he thought when one had to worry about being pulled over for being impaired.
Albion directed his attention towards the skies again.
There it was- the Silver Streak Honda Aeromobile.
Moving like a silver streak across the sky just like the ads said.
But was this THE Silver Streak- the one he had been hired to follow?
Albion snapped his fingers and the holographic keyboard appeared in front of him
instantaneously.
Albion smiled.
He was glad he got a Mac holographic keyboard.
For even the new Windows 666 holographic keyboard still took 10 seconds to kick in.
Albion typed on the holographic keyboard.
And the image came up on the holographic screen- the image of the Silver Streak’s invisible registration tattoo.
TDZ-5200.
“Gotcha,” Albion smiled.
Albion directed his Volkswagen Super Bug aeromobile’s computer to follow the Silver Streak.
The VW aeromobile soared into the sky at supersonic speed.
“Gotta love that German engineering,” Albion took another sip of his bourbon.
Albion’s VW aeromobile flew past the aeromobile of the star struck nerdy teen-agers he had noticed earlier- the ones who had flown into the low-cut top of the low-cut dress of the woman in the skyhigh holographic beer ad.
Their car was covered in a holographic red coloured substance which they flew into a holographic CLEAN zone to erase.
“Better watch where you’re flying fellas,” Albion laughed as he watched the red holographic substance being erased by the CLEAN zone, “you never know when you’re flying directly into a tampon ad.”
Albion caught up with the Silver Streak which was parked atop the steeple of the Lunar Trade Center.
The male and female passenger were getting it on intensely under the intense moonlight.
“Mr. Philadopolous,” Albion called out to the man.
The man lifted the hood of the aeromobile and stood up to see who was speaking to him.
Albion spoke, “I’ve got an early Valentine’s Day present for you from your wife.”
The private eye pulled out his gun and shot him.
The woman who was with him dove for cover under the thick luxurious Silver Streak seats.
“It’s all right, doll face,” Albion spoke to the woman, “Mrs. Philadopolous didn’t really have a message for you other than you might want to direct the Silver Streak computer to fly you in and check out the holographic ads for Transmittable Social Disease clinics along 42nd Ave.”
Albion’s VW aeromobile flew off.
He typed in the number of tonight’s kill on his holographic keyboard.
57.
He had 57 kills so far this year.
As a private eye, he was allowed 100 before he could be charged with murder.
Of course the average citizen was only allowed 5 kills a year before they were charged with murder.
Acting on behalf of Mrs. Philadopolous, she now had 1 of 5 potential kills on her record for this year.
She had told Travis Albion that she didn’t really care for her husband.
But Albion kind of figured that wasn’t true as he inhaled his non-existent smoke from his smokeless cigarette and took another sip of bourbon.
You don’t waste 1 out of 5 kills on someone you don’t really feel passionate about.
I guess it’s as they say… Love hurts.
Even here in Cosmopolis.
Even here in the Year 2029.
The VW aeromobile flew off in the direction of the rising moon.
Another night.
And another night’s work done.
THE END.
Bronte’s Wuthering Heights of the Mind
Dr. Nathaniel Bronte M.D. and noted psychiatrist had gone to his office today for a rare and unusual session.
An important personage in British politics had called his office seeking his help.
The man believed that he was a werewolf.
Which was interesting because the British press was abuzz with rumours of a werewolf in Wales.
Although after this past weekend’s mysterious attack on a British policewoman the tabloid press was now talking about a werewolf in London.
And his new patient just happened to be Welsh.
And his new patient was also in London this past weekend.
His patient told him that whenever he desired something really badly he turned into a werewolf and it didn’t matter whether it was night time or if there was a full moon present.
“Well Lon Chaney Jr. would certainly be disappointed in your behaviour then,” Dr. Bronte had remarked.
His patient told him that particularly carnal desire turned him into a werewolf.
Carnal desire eh? Dr. Bronte thought to himself.
Well he had a cure for that.
It was the most radical form of shock aversion therapy imaginable but Dr. Bronte decided to give it a shot.
By chance, he happened to have some home movies of then British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher scampering around nude on a beach back in the 1980s.
Dr. Bronte had chained his patient to a chair and ran the film projector.
Dr. Bronte stuffed his own ears with cotton to stifle the sound of the man’s screams.
When the movie was over, Dr. Bronte unchained the man.
“Well,” said Welsh Labour MP Magog Rhys Petley, “I think you’ve forever destroyed my libido.”
“Well, then no more worries about becoming a werewolf again eh?” Dr. Bronte smiled.
To be continued.
The Terror That Flies By Night
Outside the Westminster Parliament, the chimes of Big Ben could be heard chiming 6 PM.
Magog Rhys Petley the Labour Member of Parliament for the Welsh constituency of Newbridge walked along the Thames.
He was considered a member of the far Left wing of the British Labour Party. Some of his colleagues called him the Last Bolshevik.
The caucus meeting he had attended this morning was a dreary affair.
Nothing serious or important was discussed.
What seemed to be the hot topic of the day was a news story being promoted by the more sensationalistic of the Fleet Street tabloids- that there was a werewolf in Wales.
Strange attacks on sheep and farm hands near the Welsh village of Llanvihangel Crucorny.
A barmaid attacked by a wolf in the Welsh capital of Cardiff.
Of course as someone pointed out the attacks hadn’t occurred at night and the moon hadn’t been full. Something unusual for a werewolf if it was a werewolf.
Magog Rhys Petley felt uncomfortable about the whole thing when it was discussed.
And not just because the caucus was discussing things that were of no real concern to the working man in Britain.
He just felt uncomfortable with this talk of a werewolf.
Not that he believed in werewolves.
It was just that this talk… well it felt like someone was walking across his grave.
Magog Rhys Petley walked into a small confectionary and news stand to get out of the damp rain.
The confectionary radio was tuned to BBC 1.
“Our guest,” said the voice on the radio, “is our country’s top vampire hunter Edmund Van Helsing who’s the cousin of the world-famous Canadian vampire hunter Dracul Van Helsing. Mr. Van Helsing, the topic tonight is not vampires but werewolves. The recent mysterious attacks in Wales where this particular wolf seemed to have almost paranormal powers. Yet these attacks did not happen at night but during the day and not during a full moon. That’s unusual for a werewolf isn’t it?”.
“Yes, it is,” Edmund Van Helsing replied, “but I was talking to a professor of folklore at the University of Manchester. He did some research and told me that he found an obscure tablet which says that if a person is bitten by the demon Rahu- the demon who is believed to be responsible for lunar and solar eclipses in Hindu religious tradition- that person can change into a wolf no matter what time of day if powerful sexual urges arise.”
“And this demon Rahu?” asked the BBC interviewer, “what does he look like so if any of our listeners have been bitten recently and have felt the urge to grow fur and tails and fangs and howl and snarl, they will know what’s happened to them?”.
“Well Rahu is generally depicted in art as either a snake’s head without a body or a dragon’s head without a body,” Edmund Van Helsing answered.
Magog Rhys Petley left the confectionary in a sweat.
He recalled that night a little over two weeks ago when he was walking home late from a London pub and thought he had been bitten by a snake’s head without a body.
But he had attributed that to too much to drink.
Rhys Petley stood at the street corner.
Across the street he noticed a very attractive young blonde woman police constable wearing a fairly short skirt as part of her uniform and black silk nylons.
Rhys Petley felt the pangs of carnal desire.
The policewoman felt the fangs of a strange creature that seemed to emerge out of nowhere.
To be continued.
The Pestilence That Walks By Day
The creature’s view of the landscape took on the whole valley.
It looked up and saw birds flying across the distant Skirrid Mountain.
It looked down and saw a valley of white snow.
And dotting the landscape here and there small farms with sheep.
The creature growled and snarled- an unnaturally and in a certain sense unholy growl and snarl.
The creature raced down from the Black Mountains range where it had observed the valley.
And as it raced, a cold wind blew and raged behind it.
The cold wind seemed to follow the creature.
The creature raced by the Skirrid Inn Pub in the tiny Welsh village of Llanvihangel Crucorny.
“Wolf,” a startled group of bystanders braced themselves against the walls of the medieval inn.
The creature turned and snarled.
It raised its paw and stroked the white snowy ground several times like an angry stallion about to charge…
And it would have charged too…
A woman grabbed her toddler son who had run to embrace the wolf thinking that it was just a big puppy dog.
As she picked up the boy, the wolf charged…
A Cross around the woman’s neck glistened and shone as the sun momentarily burst through the clouds at that moment.
The glare of the Cross stopped the creature in its tracks.
It snarled an angry snarl and then turned and ran towards the Skirrid Mountain.
Up and up and up it ran.
Already it could smell the blood of the nearby sheep.
Blood that was soon spilling all over the white snow below the Skirrid Mountain as the creature ravenously tore sheep apart.
A couple of farm hands approached with rifles and fired at it.
But they were not using the right type of bullets for this particular kind of wolf.
The creature charged and snapped one of the farm hands’ necks in its huge jowls.
It then turned to the other farm hand and did the same.
It sped on down the valley.
And stopped at a parked car.
The creature’s vision seemed to change. It was not able to view things distantly so well. It seemed to gasp as it tried to growl and snarl.
It fell backwards in the snow.
* * *
The man got up in the snow.
He then approached the car.
And unlocked it.
He then glanced around and felt dizzy.
Why had he stopped here?
He did not know.
He entered the car and drove the long distance to Cardiff.
* * *
A group of unemployed miners sat in one of Cardiff’s trade union halls waiting for the guest speaker.
A huge bearded man approached the platform.
Normally guest speakers at the hall were given an introduction by the local trade union chairman.
But this man needed no introduction.
Nor did he want one.
And one did not argue with a man the size of Magog Rhys Petley.
“I have been called the Last Bolshevik,” the man’s voice boomed into the microphone, “it is an epithet I’m proud to carry. I’m sure many of you in this hall may even recall the days when the Labour Party in Britain was the party of labour- the party of the worker- the party of the common man. But that Tony Blair came into this party and this movement in the ’90s with his own brand of neo-conservatism and neo-globalization that he called the Third Way. Those financiers and investors in the City of London prospered under Blair and Brown and are currently prospering under Cameron. But are you prospering? Have most of the mines of Wales re-opened? And those mines that have- are the workers who work and toil in them- are they being paid a living wage?”.
“No,” the men in the hall shouted.
Rhys Petley soon had them whooped up into a frenzy.
At the end of his blistering speech, they stood and sang that old Communist anthem the Internationale with such fervour that it would have brought tears to the eyes of Lenin’s embalmed corpse in his mausoleum tomb in Moscow’s Red Square had the embalmed corpse been able to hear it.
After the meeting, the group retreated to a nearby pub where talk of Marx and Engels soon turned to talk of who could throw the most perfect array of darts after drinking three straight glasses of ale.
Magog Rhys Petley’s gaze followed after the young barmaid who had just finished her shift.
When she walked out into the street, he followed her.
She stood at the street corner smoothing her black skirt and then wrapping her long blue winter coat around her, she crossed the street.
Magog Rhys Petley felt the pangs of carnal desire stirring within him.
And as he felt them, the desire seemed to bring forth another desire out of nowhere.
What sort of strange desire was this?
Magog Rhys Petley steadied himself against a lamp post.
He felt dizzy.
His vision seemed to change.
It seemed to see great distances away.
He slipped down on to the sidewalk.
And started foaming at the mouth.
* * *
The creature got up from a tangle of men’s clothes on the snowy sidewalk and growled and snarled.
It ran down to the street corner.
And up to the next street.
With its excellent vision, the creature caught sight of the barmaid in the blue winter coat.
It chased after her.
Hearing the commotion, the barmaid turned.
At what she saw, her hands let go of the winter coat she held tightly around her showing her delicate white blouse and exquisite black skirt through the openings of her coat.
The creature lunged on top of her.
The barmaid screamed.
And after a few seconds, she screamed no more…
To be continued.
The 13th Sign
Carson Albion Private Eye was once again walking the streets of LA.
Not on a case.
Well maybe a case of rum when he got back to the office.
No, he was going out for dinner which he’d then take back to his office.
His dinner habits consisted entirely of take-out.
One night Chinese, next night Japanese, night after that Vietnamese, then Thai, then Indian, then Korean, then Italian, then Mexican. And then the process would begin again…
Tonight was Chinese food night.
And Carson Albion was headed to his favourite Chinese food take-out restaurant The Ming Lantern.
He ordered the lemon chicken, the ginger beef, the sweet and sour pork and fried rice.
After receiving his complimentary fortune cookie which he put in the bag, Albion once again headed out into the night.
As he walked down the street, a familiar voice greeted him, “Hey Albion.”
It was Lt. McQuinn of the LAPD.
“Lt.,” Albion nodded back, “you look like you’ve had a busy night.”
“Into the paddy wagon with the others,” Lt. McQuinn directed two constables who were bringing down a body in a body bag from an upstairs apartment.
The constables put the body into the back of the paddy wagon where a whole bunch of other bodies in body bags were stacked.
“That’s the 13th dead astrologer tonight,” Lt. McQuinn explained to Carson Albion, “ever since the New Astrology emerged en masse last week with the 13th sign Ophiuchus the serpent-bearer being introduced and everyone’s astrological sign being bumped around, some people haven’t taken kindly to their new signs and have ended up killing their personal astrologers as a result. This has resulted in one big headache for the LA homicide department. We don’t know who to look for in terms of suspects. Whether we should be looking at the old astrological signs of potential suspects or the new signs.”
“That would be a problem all right,” Albion had to admit.
“I guess all the rehab clinics in Hollywood are going extra crazy at the moment too,” McQuinn said, “with thousands of stars and celebrities checking themselves in saying that now their sign has been changed, they’re having more trouble than ever with coming to terms with who they are.”
“Makes me glad I’m not a regular guest on the Oprah Show,” Albion stated.
“Me too,” McQuinn agreed.
Albion walked down the street carrying his bag of Chinese food while McQuinn got a call on his car radio saying that a split personality astrologer was holding a gun to his own head and threatening to kill himself unless he went back to being a Gemini.
Albion passed by the Starstruck Motel on the way back to his office.
He stopped when he noticed a man in a turban standing on the second floor outside walkway of the motel. The man played a musical instrument and a snake was rearing its head from the top of a basket.
The man then picked up the snake and kicked his way into a motel room.
This didn’t look good.
Albion removed his gun from his trenchcoat pocket and ran up the stairs.
He then entered the room where the man with the snake had kicked the door open.
The man stood on the bed atop a screaming woman holding the snake in his hands and ready to drop the snake on top of her.
The man in the darkened silhouette of the motel room looked like the figure of Ophiuchus the snake bearer- the 13th sign.
Albion fired a shot at the man and the man fell back off the bed.
Before dying, the man’s last words were, “I guess this means I won’t be getting my green card.”
The snake then crawled out of the dead man’s hands and put its venomous cobra head on the bed where once again the woman screamed.
The cobra’s head was blown away with a single shot from Albion’s gun.
The woman in a short black lingerie night dress threw herself into Albion’s arms and planted kisses all over him.
Albion returned the favour.
After several intense hours of lovemaking on the bed, the woman said she should really call her parents back home and let them know how she was doing.
The woman was Jade Priyanka Sen a rising young Bollywood starlet from Mumbai, India who had come to Hollywood to expand her acting portfolio.
The dead man with the dead snake was her abusive ex-boyfriend who had followed her from India to America.
“I really should be getting my clothes on,” the woman smiled at Carson Albion before kissing him good-bye.
“I guess I should get back to the office and eat my Chinese food before it starts getting cold,” Albion picked up the bag marked The Ming Lantern.
He walked out into the LA night and headed back to his office.
He ate his dinner and drank a bottle of rum and opened his complimentary fortune cookie.
The fortune said,
YOUR DESTINY IS NOT IN THE STARS.
YOU MAKE YOUR OWN DESTINY.
Albion crumpled up the small piece of paper and thought to himself, more people should really be getting fortune cookies from The Ming Lantern.
There might have been less dead bodies on the streets of LA tonight.
-The 13th Sign
A short story
by Christopher Dracul Van Helsing
written Monday, January 17th, 2011
The Scientist and Jack O’ Hare
July 9, 2011 at 7:04 pm (Commentary, Short Story) (Jack O' Hare, mad scientist, new genetic engineering, trans-species genetic engineering, transhumanism)
“Why shouldn’t pigs have wings?” the man with glasses in the white lab coat asked Jack O’ Hare.
The wild hare bunny rabbit raised his big ears when he heard the question and calmly continued to eat his carrot.
“We can make the sea boiling hot with nuclear explosions,” the scientist rubbed his hands together enthusiastically, “so why not give pigs wings? My colleagues and I are working on such wonders with genetic engineering. Perhaps you’d like wings, my big earred furry friend.”
Jack looked up at the sky.
He saw a crow and a magpie fighting.
Not all was so friendly in the skies despite the vast beautiful blue and the luminescent fluffy white clouds.
No, he was quite content with who God had made him to be- a bunny rabbit.
When Jack finished his carrot, he turned his back on the scientist in the lab coat and hopped away.
“But I can make you a god if you’d just give me the chance,” the scientist shouted after Jack O’ Hare, “for that’s the next stage in the cosmic evolution of all us species.”
The scientist’s name wasn’t Frankenstein but it may just as well have been.
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