Honorable Mention Winners 2007 Flash Fiction Contest Flower Bones by Jennifer Peters Kepla, Eugene, OR When they get hungry, they crush rose petals into beef broth and drink it from bowls. It tastes like seaweed and salt, but Xavier closes his eyes and imagines there’s still a hint of blood in the flowers, traveled up from the thorns through the veins of the stem. Lily – and what a name for a vampire, but how could her parents have known? – drinks with relish, making heavy slurping noises of delight. “Mm, it’s heavenly,” she says, “like Gettysburg in the springtime.” “It’s not blood.” He pushes his dish away and it collides with a glass salt shaker. She used to collect them for fun, for irony. Now the bottles have fingerprints. “Nothing is.” “Oh, darling,” she says, and when she tilts her head her neck is pale moonlight. Even that’s a temptation. Since the rations went into effect, most of their kind stays in at night. They know too well the story of Michael Manfred, who poached at a Wendy’s drive-thru late night, desperate to feed his family. The young vampires have been hit hardest by the new restrictions – only the strongest can make it thirty days without feeding. The court had no pity for Mike, though, and his staking was broadcast for all pay-per-view to see. “Instinct excuses nothing” is the new ministry motto. “Please eat,” Lily says. “You’ll need your strength for the hunt.” The hunt. Xavier takes back his bowl, tips it carefully and sucks. The hunt, he thinks. The hunt. The first is still a week away but already he can taste it, the high sour smell of men in the air over the clean fragrance of trampled grass and wildflowers. This has been the ministry’s gift, these hunts, planned chases for the thirsty. No more sneaking around hospitals, no more lurking on particularly dangerous highway curves, no more monitoring the police scanners: now they can have their fresh blood and chase them too. It’s an agreement struck with the human government, something of benefit to them all. Food is scarce for man too, and they leapt at a chance to thin their ranks of unsavories. Xavier wonders what will happen when their prisons are empty and he tries not to hope that it will out the old way: each for himself and the blood he can let. But this, this dead soup that tastes of dust and flower bones, this does nothing. This solves nothing, satisfies no appetite. He hands it back gently this time. “You’ll need strength too,” he says. “No.” She sets down her empty bowl. A faint red mist hangs on her lips. “I’m not going.” “What?” Lily shrugs. Her sweater falls loose over her shoulder and she slides it back over her skin. She takes her bowl to the sink and begins to clean it, a habit left over from humanity. No bacteria grow that would kill them. There’s only light, stakes, and starvation. “I just can’t anymore,” she says. “They’re fighting for survival, just like us. I fought once too.” “Yes,” he says and he can remember that violence, her balled fists against his chest, “But now –” “I’m decided,” she says. She takes his bowl, returns to the sink. The sweater slips down. She bends her head to scrub where his fangs have left grooves in the porcelain. Three hundred years he has known her, the swell of her hips, the smoothness of her inner thigh, the tantalizing bend of her creamy neck. “Don’t be sad,” she says. “It’s more for you.” He’s up in a flash, his teeth sunk in while one hand is still catching his chair. Three hundred years and he’s never heard this sound from her before, a sigh, a half – whisper, a crackle like flower stems snapping in her chest. Dry for years, of course, he had the last taste, but still, underneath he knows there must be a hint of blood in marrow, in bone, traces from her thorny past. She doesn’t fight, not at all, and he closes his eyes and drinks. Rosemary for Remembrance by Holly Vance, Whittier, CA “You have to invite me in,” a high, clean voice called into the apartment. Clutching the neck of her silk, lavender robe, Rosemary tiptoed to the screen door. Its pattern spliced her visitor’s form into pieces, fragments of the stranger who had accosted her in the alleyway the night before with undeniable appeal and impossible promises. She reached for the doorknob, her hand neither hesitating nor quivering as it neared the lock. The swing of the door forced him to take as step back; her porch light transformed him into a slender, black silhouette. He entered and stopped in front of her. The corner of his mouth lifted, and she saw his pupil pulse and expand within the hazel of his eyes. She touched his silky black hair before he slipped around her and moved deeper into the apartment. The light shone luminous on his skin. She wondered if he truly was a vampire He perused the contents of her living room: red sofa; the two tall bookcases stuffed with romance novels; the mahogany coffee table; the television, stereo and DVD player perfectly placed in an entertainment center, the three pictures hung on her wall: one of her deceased parents, one taken at the 40th birthday party thrown by her co-workers, and one of herself. Closing the door, Rosemary said, “You know I’m old enough to be your mother.” His body, feminine in the way that it flowed through movement, slinked towards her. Seizing the back of her neck, he held her thin white lips very close to his plump pink ones. Rosemary ran her thumb over his long eyelashes, over his ample, red mouth, over the smooth white skin of his cheek. Pressing her hand against his chest, Rosemary repeated what he has said to her in the alleyway: “No heartbeat.” “No pulse,” he finished. He ran his tongue over his unusually long canines. “But I can make you happy.” “So you promised.” He began nibbling on her lips until she opened her mouth. Catching her bottom lip between his teeth, he bit down. The pain set off burst of light behind her closed eyes, but Rosemary struggled to hide her resistance. His tongue slid into her mouth, lapping up the blood that now flooded it. Suddenly he pulled back, slurping and swallowing. Grasping Rosemary by the waist, he crushed her against him. She felt her soft, weathered flesh give against his cold, hard body. Tracing the tips of his sharpened fingernails down her neck, he paused against her collarbone and pierced the skin just above it. His eyes flashed as her blood tickled, and leaning over, he closed his lips around the wound and sucked. Rosemary grabbed his shoulders and her knees buckled as he lowered her to the ground. Staring down into her face, he smiled. His fingers gently brushed the lines stemming from the corners of her blue eyes. Taking a handful of her brown hair, he studied it. She thought of the fine weeds of grey sprouting at her temples. “The signs of life: so revealing,” he said. “What do they reveal?” Rosemary asked. “Pain,” he said simply. “Loneliness.” Easy answers; reliable guesses. Yes, Rosemary felt pain when her parents died and loneliness when she had no family to turn to. She also felt pain after each of her miscarriages and loneliness when her husband refused to have a barren wife. But that legacy could not be carried by flaws of the skin. No one would stare down into her coffin and read the lines on her face, trying to find a story within the creases. They would simply pity and forget because there would be no one there to remind them. “I will make this all disappear,” he whispered gliding his fingertips over her face. He peeled back her lavender robe and studied her nudity. Heat swarmed up her body and a fire flamed in her cheeks. His nails trailed all over, piercing the soft tissue of her breasts, stomach, thighs. He’d watch the blood for a moment, then drink. At first, she locked her shimmering eyes on the ceiling, riding the waves of adrenaline that the pain brought her. After a few moments, individual pricks blended into a rippling warm hum that burned her skin. Then she found herself watching him: his lips dragging over her skin, his tongue lapping up streams of blood. When his face appeared above hers again, blood trickled down his chin. Closing his mouth around his own wrist, he bit down. He said, “I can make it so that you’ll never die. You will be immune to all human suffering.” A red drop splashed onto her face and rolled over her cheek. She pursed her lips together to keep it out of her mouth. Slowly lifting her hand to her face, she wiped the blood away. “I don’t want to live forever,” she croaked. “I want you to kill me.” The vampire blinked and drew back his bloody wrist. “I want my blood on the walls…” she murmured. “I want young policemen screaming ‘Oh my God’ when they walk in here. I want detectives to stay up late at night, plagued by the violence of my death and their inability to find my killer.” There would be journalists digging into and publishing the details of her life. Documentaries would be made: true crime books would be written. Photos would be taken and splashed across the internet. The significance of her death would elevate the insignificance of her life into something profound. Her death could be her only legacy. “I want someone…someone to remember me,” she said. Opening her eyes she stared into the vampire’s face. “I don’t care what you are,” she said. “Just kill me.” “Very well,” he answered. He reared up, his nails punctured through the thin layers of flesh between her breasts, hooked onto bone, and tore her chest open. Isabella by Marilyn Forbes, Mount Pleasant, PA “Isabella.” Vampires. They call us children of the night, the undead and night stalkers. Poems are written about us and stories are spun, but those of us that exist in our select group know that our heritage and our legends are beyond the imagination and speculation of those who fear us unnecessarily, and whose warped ignorance paints us as hideous monsters. Take me for instance. I am a vampire. I happen to adore the sunshine, basking in the golden orb as it warms my skin, and a cross thrust in my face does nothing to deter me in my wake. The pungent scent of garlic is not unpleasant to me, and certainly does not send me screeching off into the night. Nor am I the repulsive creature of children’s nightmares, as my golden coloring and emerald eyes have allowed me to be called beautiful for centuries. I was adopted at an early age, six weeks to be precise, so I have never had the luxury of hearing or knowing of my past, or how I became the creature that I am. I have always simply remained as a constant, doomed to wander and seek my truth. However, I do indeed drink blood, requiring the taste and fulfillment of one human per year to satisfy and sustain my thirst and my need. I never select lovely virgins of the village or the pretty young ladies of the land, opting instead to find that one repulsive and wretched individual whose untimely demise may actually be a blessing to those whose lives they have made miserable by their wicked ways. I am presently a companion for such a creature, Mabel Hansom, a mean spirited old biddy whose vast fortune has never brought her a moment of happiness or peace. She sits upon her veranda in her antique wicker peacock chair, and looks down onto the hamlet below, aptly named Hansomville as it was her family money that has sustained the town, reminding the inhabitants constantly of that fact. It is to her house on the hill that I now trek, walking a bit of a slower gait as I feel the need to feed strongly racing through my veins, rendering me weak in its path. Climbing slowly up the winding path to the impressive Victorian manse, I lay the final plans for my ingenious strategy, knowing that if all goes well, my appetite will be well sated and the town free of its demon before night falls. Harley, her St. Bernard enthusiastically greets me as I approach the house, bouncing his annoying self around me in his fit of glee. “Isabella, is that you?” Mabel’s reedy voice wafts down the stairs. “Isabella, ISABELLA, come up here at once.” Climbing the stairs is a torture, but I know that once I reach the apex, I can settle down on her downy bed or sit beside her on the settee, as she spins her tales of childhood and youth. Miss Mabel’s stories are not the ones that most old ladies tell however, relating lost loves or quaint anecdotes of sates and eras gone by, but nightmarish tales of her cruelty and vengeance. “Oh, there you are finally, come and sit by me. I’ve been lonely.” With a glint in her eye she tells me how she destroyed a family by ordering the demise of the town’s beef population, telling all that the herds were infected. She then sold the beef and made a fortune, while the farmer went bankrupt. “Those people are so stupid,” she said, “They are too dumb to live.” I merely listen as she speaks, knowing I will no longer have to endure her much longer. I glance at the clock and notice that it is almost seven in the evening. Perfect. Soon the evening post will be delivered, forcing Miss Mabel to go to the front door. Suddenly Harley appears at the door, seeming apprehensive and cagey. “What is the matter with you,” she asks. “If I wasn’t afraid for my safety, I’d shoot you myself, you useless cuss.” But what Miss Mabel does not know is that I have disposed of Harley’s food for the last two days, hiding it in the pantry where he cannot reach it. The bell suddenly sounds, announcing the evening post, and Miss Mabel dons her dressing robe to descend the stairs to the door. Reaching the top of the stairs Harley suddenly lunges at her from behind, putting his massive paws on her back as he leaps at her. “Harley, what?” she screams, teetering for only a moment before plunging down the grand staircase. Stopping with a thud at the base, blood freely begins to ooze from her head wound, making a perfect spot for feasting. I dive right in and feed. “I always forget how wonderful this is,” I think as I feed, relishing the warm liquid that I feel rejuvenating me with each swallow. Full and satisfied, I fall asleep only a few feet from her body. It is soon night and Harley’s baying has aroused suspicion. Finally the villagers come to check on Miss Mabel. “I can’t say as I’m sorry,” one man remarks. “But how did she fall?” “Looky here,” another points to two large paw prints on her back. “It was Harley! Wonder what made him do it?” Perhaps the dog treats that I had put in Miss Mabel’s pocket I think? The ones his starving nose smelled when she put on her robe? “Oh look, it’s little Isabella,” they say as they suddenly spot me. “And she’s covered with blood.” I had planned to be gone when they arrived but now I was trapped. Suddenly, reaching down, one of the village children scooped me up in her arms and cried. “Oh my Isabella, you poor thing. You were always such a pretty kitty.”   The Unliving Will Now what? Why can’t I move? It’s the same old comfy coffin. Even though I can’t move my eyes I can see the dusky rose satin ruffles I chose specially to match my cummerbund. Oops. My vision blurs while something furry and tickly skitters over one of my eyes. I can sort of feel that someone has been kind enough to crank up my head so that my neck doesn’t develop a crick in it. Eyeowl! That’s scarey. A huge round head drifts in and out of my line of sight. Its smile is more like a grimace exposing rotten green stumps of teeth and favoring me with a stench from its mouth reminiscent of toilets, rotten meat and vomit. It’s Farnsworth, my manservant cum zombie. I found him in a mausoleum few dozen years ago. A couple of festering tears from his eyes drip unpleasantly on my lips as he bends over me and says, “I know that it was the Master’s wish. But I shall miss his beatings and curses.” That gives me a cold fuzzy feeling. There’s no money that can buy that kind of loyalty. Another voice cut in, “Quit ‘cher blubberin and tell me how in the name of all that’s unholy we can close that damn coffin lid.” I recognize that voice. It’s that Czech thief with the unpronounceable name that I made into a werewolf to guard my crypt. The spell must somehow be broken. Otherwise he would only be able to grunt, growl and howl. “Please Ololowicz, it is only right to have a bit of a wake for the Master. After all, he created us.” You try to pronounce that with a mouthful of fangs. “Damn the Master!” That isn’t nice. I’ll take care of him later. Maybe I’ll throw him into the river and see if he floats. Get it? I’ll be floating a Czech. Maybe I’ll throw him down the well and see if I can bounce a Czech. Ha-ha-ha-ha-… It’s the thief’s voice again. Damn, why can’t I move? “Remember Farnsworth, it is the Master’s desire, after all. Do you want to read it again to see if you missed something?” Farnsworth blubbers through rotting lips, “Uh, OK, I’ll try.” There is a crackling of papers as though someone’s getting them out of a pocket, then Farnsworth’s caricature of a voice again, stumbling as he reads. “I Count Alucard, aka Dracula, aka Lord of the Night, aka Nofesterau, aka Ruler of the Darkness, aka Seducer of…” “Skip that crap and get to the main part,” the Czech interrupts. I’ll teach him that it isn’t mannerly to interrupt. “OK” says Farnsworth, “here goes.” “…being at least of sound mind, do hereby revoke and rescind any and all other preceding Testaments, and do aver, avow and say that this is my last and most binding Will and or Testament. “And, there a whole bunch a stuff that I don’t understand. Then it goes on some more: And, if I ever fail to awaken at the last chime of the hour of the setting sun, and whether or not a heartbeat is evident, and even if the heaving of my chest produces perfectly cold dank misty aberrations of breath, I do not want extraordinary means employed to maintain my state of undeadness. It is my final wish that a stake be driven through the place in my chest where a heart would reside had I one and I be left to spend eternity with my master, the Devil, in chaos. “Set forth under my hand, blah, blah, blah, blah and witnessed by one Mikheal Ololowski this thirteenth day of October, 2005.” Wait a minute, I never wrote any thing like that. I like being undead. After all it is better than the alternative. Either alternative. “OK, Farnsworth. See anything there that shows a way out?” “No.” “And you can see that I witnessed it. Would I witness something that wasn’t so?” “No.” "Then give me a hand closing this lid." “OK.” I try to scream but no sound comes out. My lower jaw is already turning to dust, even if I could move it. Just as my ears start shriveling to paper and changing to a grey powder, I hear Farnsworth say, “It’s not like the Master to write his will in crayon.”