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You may think you know where this story of undying love is going … but beware: you might be myth-ing something important.

The concert was going fine until Johnny Harlowe saw his dead girlfriend in the third row.

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Morning sunlight moved over Dark Creek, making the students shade their eyes against the glare. Miss Leonard, she of the willowy frame and long legs, tsked and lowered the blinds.

“I do hope that’s better. Now, let’s begin by reviewing your choices for the assignment: You can read Dracula, Carmilla or, gag, excuse me, Interview with the Vampire.” I expect the reading to be done in a month, and then written responses every week thereafter.” She looked out over the sullen faces.

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“Lucky fucking cripple,” Stuart said as he eyed Johnny Hicks’s stump. Looking down at his own two healthy legs, he couldn’t help but feel he was the handicapped one.

“Morning, Mr. Alexander.” Johnny said as he passed Stuart’s office on the way to the firm’s law library.

“Morning,” Stuart grumbled through clenched teeth. Johnny was a good fellow and Stuart knew what he felt was wrong, but handicapped people had it so easy in life. For a cripple, it’s enough just to live a normal life.

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“Congratulations, boys and ghouls,” Lady Nocturna said, crossing her legs in a whisper of fishnets. “You’ve lived through another night of fright. Tune in next week for a double-trouble Wilfred Ghostman creature feature Friday. Immacula the Vampire Nun followed by Wasp People, both starring yours truly. Right here on Channel 12, Trinity Bay’s one and only. Join me for the fun … if you dare!”

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Soon we shall plunge into the cold darkness;
Farewell, vivid brightness of our short-lived summers!
          ― Charles Baudelaire, “Autumn Song”

Baudelaire.

It is 1859. Where has his strength gone? His arms are like brooms held at arms’ length to disturb a hornets’ nest, only his are joined at his shoulders. Numb, barely under his control. It is l’automne now, the time of dying, when the hornets die off or disappear to hide with their Queen. Baudelaire’s deadened broomstick arms serve no purpose now except to take the louched glass of absinthe once the sugar lump has been dissolved by dripping ice water.

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