Short Weird Tales: Cold

- Vampire’s back.
- What’s that?
- I said that vampire’s back. In the garden.
- The same one? Beryl doesn’t come through from the lounge, although she turns the television down.
- Yes, the one with the black hair.
- Well just ignore it, Brian.
- That’s a bit hard when it's staring right at me.
Brian goes back to the washing up. The volume from the living room goes back to its previous level.

- JESUS!
- What’s happened?? Beryl comes pacing through to the kitchen. The vampire is at the window, nose touching the glass six inches away from the sink.
- It's interested in what you’re doing, that’s all. It’s the activity, the movement.
- Is it interested in making me shit myself, Beryl?
- Oh don’t be dramatic, it’ll wander off in a moment.
- Have you been feeding it again? You know it only attracts others.
- No Brian, we’ve had that conversation. It’s cold out, it’s probably just looking for somewhere to shelter.
- But it lives round here somewhere, why can’t it just go home?
- Look, you know they can’t come into the house, don’t worry about it.
- Well I’ve heard them in the passageway at night, shuffling around.
- Because you insist on leaving the door ajar, yes.
- If you close it the air doesn’t circulate and the mould comes back.
- Well which is it Brian, mould or vampires?
- We’re not having this conversation again. If this keeps up, I’m putting the traps back down.
- That’s inhumane, Brian.
- It’s my property, Beryl, I’ll do as I damn well please.
The vampire is back in the middle of the garden now, staring over at the neighbour’s house. Brian dries the dishes, looking out of the window long after the vampire has gone.

Later than night.
Beryl comes downstairs.
She takes a saucer from the cupboard.
Opens a vein. Opens the patio door.
Leaves it outside, out of view from the kitchen window.

Well, it’s cold out.
You’ve got to think of the little ones.

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DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• Short stories © WorldOfBlackout.co.uk, all entries are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Y'know, mostly.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

Short Weird Tales: Claret

It was the feeling against my face that woke me. Not quite cold, yet it certainly couldn't be described as warm. Sticky and overpoweringly clammy, drying into a crust where my cheek met my nose. It had already sealed closed the corner of one eye, and I rubbed it with a too-wet hand as I gradually and painfully blinked it open.

Somehow, throughout all this, I didn't notice the coppery stench until my sight adjusted to the gloom. Even then I didn't take in the details for God knows how long. What I thought at first to be black, was in fact a deep, cloying red. Blood… everywhere.

My blood? Undoubtedly not, given the sheer volume alone, and other than a throbbing nausea I felt little in the way of physical pain. Certainly not the pain (indeed, oblivion) that would follow bleeding on this scale. There must have been at least half an inch of blood on the floor, still wet, stinking, and only congealing where it met the walls.

The walls. The blood was smeared, splattered, and in some places scratched into them, up to, and in some cases on, the ceiling. I couldn't imagine what had happened in this room prior to my arrival, and I didn't want to start trying. The silence of the room screeched an untold terror of how it had came to be. Blood. Everywhere.

In the absence of an obvious exit, I began to look for the one which must exist, by virtue of my very presence in the room. Finding the door took less time than I'd feared, although what lay on the other side of it would redefine what I'd call 'fear' forever...

---

DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.
• Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.
• Short stories © WorldOfBlackout.co.uk, all entries are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Y'know, mostly.
• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organisations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.

53: A World Without Beer: Week 14

CAUTION: Yen's blog contains harsh language and even harsher notions of propriety. Reader discretion is advised.


Well, we're on the final stretch now, people! The end is in sight. Less than one week until this ridiculous self-imposed charade is over.

Ironically, I've kind of settled into the groove now. While I miss the idea of having a pint, I've been 'dry' for so long that I'm just sort of used to it. Not that it's going to continue. Unless something clicks in the next seven days, I haven't turned into that "actually, I think I'll just give up for good" person twat that I feared was round the corner.

As a result of me being unnervingly content, there's even less to write about it. Oh, I still really miss white wine. our lass had some the other night and it smelled fucking gorgeous. Looking forward to an ice-cold Pinot Grigio may be keeping me sane. Yes, I know how that sounds.

+++

In other news, I was walking out of Sainsburg's on Friday afternoon, and the guy in front of me was leaving with some dry-cleaning he'd collected. Now using my keen skills of assumption deduction, I noticed he was with his wife/girlfriend and was in fairly presentable clothes. Which is to say the pair of them were wearing casual, clean clothes.

I can hear you from here : "Well maybe he was picking his suit up? Or his dry-clean-only coat?"

Alas, no. He was picking up his army uniform. Not a dress-uniform, like an officer's suit or spangly-parade version; He was picking up his desert-camo gear. I could see it through the bag. Now I know that you're still scratching your head over there: "...and?"

It just set me wondering; how insanely impractical is it to have your military forces wearing dry-clean-only uniforms? Why didn't he just do it in the machine? He looked presentable enough, he's clearly got the facility to wash his own clothes. I'm fairly certain it was his uniform, as his build and hair would suggest he'd be in the armed forces. Even if it wasn't his, it was someone's.

I just don't think it gives off the fearsome-warrior impression if our guys are out in Basra, up to their necks in insurgents, and the sounds you hear in between the gunfire are a mincing "Ooh, look at that! Mud! I'll never get that out! I had to take these trousers back twice last week because of the blood! And he was going to bloody charge me again!"

While I'm sure that the uniforms can be dry-cleaned, I can't believe that they're dry-clean only. That'd just be fucking stupid. Now I know the next thing you're thinking: "Why didn't you go and ask him, then? There are two reasons:

One: The aforementioned thoughts cascaded over the next 5 minutes or so. We went in different directions after Sainsburg's, so by the time I'd reached the conclusion that it was fucking stupid, he was nowhere to be seen.

Two: Inevitably, the question would have worked its way down to me, a thirty-something unfit man, telling him, a thirty-something trained killer, that his choice of garment-cleaning was "fucking stupid". I have little doubt that it would have happened. Because when my twisted logic grabs me, real logic seems to go out of the window.

Fuck it, I'll never know. And neither will you.
...I need a drink.

DISCLAIMERS:
• ^^^ That's dry, British humour, and most likely sarcasm or facetiousness.

• This is a personal blog. The views and opinions expressed here represent my own thoughts (at the time of writing) and not those of the people, institutions or organizations that I may or may not be related with unless stated explicitly.