by J. R. Rain
The moon...always.
Okay, I thought again, nodding, there is a small chance that this might be happening.
* * *
Stillness.
Complete silence.
Before me and all around me was an empty, barren landscape. I expected to feel wind, or to hear...something.
I heard nothing, felt nothing.
No, that wasn’t true.
I felt cold. Colder than I’d ever felt before. I was almost—almost—uncomfortable. But not quite. Not me. And not in this huge form.
I found myself on a steep, craggy rock. A tor, some might call it. I looked down and saw that my clawed talons were gripping a stony overhang. As I shifted, some of the rock broke loose and fell away. But the pieces didn’t fall away in a manner I was used to.
No, they fell away as if in slow motion.
In fact, the rock and dust fragments almost drifted away, as if descending slowly through the deep seas. I was imminently aware that I was witnessing something few humans—mortal or immortal—had ever experienced.
I’m here. I’m really here. The Moon.
The rock fragments finally hit a bigger boulder far below me, rebounded off it, seemed to hover briefly in mid-air, then continued down, finally landing in a puff of white dirt.
I knew from my research that the moon had only a hint of an atmosphere, and nothing close to oxygen. I didn’t need oxygen, not in this form and not in my human form.
So what now, Sam? the creature asked.
I want to fly, I said.
Then so be it.
But can I?
Stretch out your wings...and let’s see.
You mean, you don’t know?
The creature chuckled in my head. I’m learning right along with you, Sam.
And so I did as I was told. I stretched out my wings—our wings. I stretched them wide...and then beat them once.
There’s not much resistance, I reported back.
Keep going. I can help you.
Help me how?
I’m not from your Earth, Sam, or even from your universe. I can fly in extreme conditions.
Even with little or no atmosphere?
Try me.
I flapped them harder and harder. Now, I sensed the creature’s excitement, as well. Yes, this was a new experience for him, too. And he loved to fly. Boy, did he.
Luckily, so did I.
I continued flapping, generating some air movement around me, but not much. Dust particles billowed and stirred. I wondered if this was the first time they had ever billowed and stirred.
Okay, I thought. Here goes.
I leapt off the rocky perch and into the blackness around me. I sensed the creature was aiding my flight. I also sensed a sort of energy field around me. Was I, in fact, flying within this field? I didn’t know, but whatever was going on, it seemed to work.
After all, I was flying.
High above the surface of the moon.
* * *
It took some getting used to.
One thing about the creature’s body: it was engineered to fly...seemingly anywhere. Through time and space and everything in-between.
I stretched my wings and glided down a rocky escarpment. My shadow raced below me, as the sun itself bathed the surface of the moon as surely as it did the Earth.
That gave me a pause for thought: yes, I was in direct sunlight now, although the light here was muted and surrounded by the blackness of deep space. The sunlight did not seem to affect me or the creature. I next wondered if the sunlight would affect Talos back on Earth. In fact, I often wondered that.
I had never transformed into the giant flying bat back on Earth during the daylight.
You are not affected by the sunlight? I asked.
No, Sam.
So, when I am back on Earth...
Yes, you can transform into me and have my full strength during the light of day.
Mind, I said. Blown.
An Earth idiom, I presume.
You presume correctly.
But I am also much easier to spot, since I am a black, giant, vampire bat and all.
Good point.
No longer concerned about the sun, I continued my flight over the surface of the moon. Surely someone with a telescope, somewhere, was reporting a bat-shaped anomaly moving across the surface of the moon.
I grinned at the thought.
* * *
Before me was a massive, circular ring. An almost perfect circle. And it was, to paraphrase Tammy...ginormous.
I followed the ring of rock, banking slightly; whatever meteorite had hit this had been massive, deeply scarring the moon’s surface.
I veered away from the massive crater and over the empty moon. As I flew, I was aware of one thing. I was alone. Completely alone.
A whole world...
To myself.
I liked that.
I liked that a lot.
* * *
I dipped in and out of valleys, up and over small mountains and hills and ridges. Always, there was emptiness. Always, there was the silence. And with the silence, there was peace.
The only movement was my own flying shadow beneath me, weaving in and out of chasms and over hills, speeding rapidly along, keeping pace.
I continued flying—and continued laughing to myself. Mostly, I continued expecting to wake up in bed at any moment.
But I never woke up.
* * *
The creature sensed my worry.
Through the exuberant, unbridled fun of all this—through the excitement of flying across the bleak landscape of the moon, a worry finally surfaced, and the creature voiced it for me.
You can return, Samantha, as easily as you arrived.
Oh, thank God.
You are a gutsy woman to come here without a thought of how to get back.
Oh, I was going to get back. I thought. One way or another.
And I did get back, too. But not before I continued over the surface of the moon, sweeping high and low, seeing firsthand the mountain chains and plateaus and valleys and landscapes that had rarely, if ever, been seen by man.
At least, rarely seen like this, if ever.
I grinned inwardly and dove down into a deep valley, wings outstretched, grinning like a fool. At least, on the inside.
I swept through the narrow valley, my wings just missing the sheer rock walls, then I angled up, and up and up...and exploded out of the cleft and into the black void of space, wings outstretched like a dark angel.
I hovered there briefly, surveying the surface of the Moon...deciding where I wanted to explore next.
I saw it. Another crater. Deeper than the one before. It was wrapped in deep velvet blackness.
I dove down, laughing and grinning. Yes, I was flying over the surface of the Moon. The dark side.
And I couldn’t have been happier.
The End
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Samantha Moon’s
Guest Blog
Some call me a vampire.
I say, why use labels? I’m uncomfortable calling myself anything other than a mother. That’s the one label I am comfortable with. I’m a mom first and foremost. A private investigator next, even though that is fairly recent. Seven years ago, I wasn’t a private eye, but a federal agent.
So, even that was subject to change. Perhaps someday, I might find myself better suited for a different job, although I will always help those who need help. Although I’d always admired Judge Judy, I would never want to be in her position: to judge the actions of others. That took wisdom...a lifetime of wisdom. Technically, I’m only in my mid-thirties, although I look much younger. Still, I’m far too young to judge others.
Truth was, my current lifestyle was perfectly suited to private investigation. Other than meeting new clients, who tended to want to meet during the day, I got along just fine working the night shift.
So, yes, one of the constants in my life was that I was a mother. Of cour
se, even that was threatened just a year or so ago, when a rare sickness almost took my son from me. A son who was growing so fast.
Supernaturally fast.
Don’t ask.
I have a daughter, too. A daughter who offered many challenges, the least of which was that she could read minds as easily as she read her Facebook newsfeed.
Yes, I was a mother...and a sister. My sister has had a rough time of it, of late. She’s recently been introduced to some of the darker elements of my world, and might be holding a grudge against me. But she would get over it. She’s better. I need her in my life.
Of course, there was another constant in my life...a constant that I ignored. A constant that I denied. And, as they say, denial isn’t just a river in Egypt.
Denial is my sanity.
You see, I have to deny what I am. Who I am. Or I would go crazy. I know I would. In fact, a part of me is certain that I just might be crazy. But let’s not go there.
Yes, call me anything. But please, just please, don’t call me a vampire.
At least, not to my face.
Return to the Table of Contents
Teeth
Fang’s Story
The defense attorney circled the witness box and studied the killer. The young man, with his head bowed and hands clasped loosely before him, looked as if he were in a confessional. The attorney nearly chuckled at the image.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sucked my girlfriend dry.”
He stopped circling and now stood directly in front of his client. As usual, the young man ignored him and stared down into his lap.
Remember, Aaron, thought the attorney. Your fate rests with me. I’m your friend here, not the enemy.
The crowd was silent; so silent, in fact, that the attorney actually heard a pen drop, clattering loudly on the polished tiles. The lawyer, however, was not so delusional as to believe that those in the courtroom were holding their collective breaths and waiting for him. Indeed, he knew they were spellbound by the young man. The killer. Hell, the whole damn world seemed spellbound by the young man, whom the press had dubbed the American Vampire.
The attorney removed his glasses dramatically—he always removed them dramatically—and spoke loudly enough for all to hear. After all, this was his big moment, too. This case would make his career.
“Aaron, you have been found guilty for the murder of Annie Hox. Now a new jury must decide your punishment. In particular, they will decide if you are worth more alive than dead. The ball is in your court, Aaron.”
The young man continued staring down at his hands, almost petulantly, like a scolded kid.
A hell of a scolding, thought the attorney.
Aaron Parker had always been a quiet young man, the very definition of introverted. Long ago he had learned never to trust anyone, especially not to open up to anyone. Now, sitting here for all the world to see in the witness box, he felt uneasy at best. The uncomfortable chair didn’t help, either.
As Aaron shifted again, the lead defender paused in front of him, smelling of expensive cologne and looking, if anything, like he was enjoying himself. Aaron hated him. Aaron hated most people, but he especially hated his own attorney. The polished man looked like the older version of all the kids in school who had made fun of him. All the good-looking kids who had it good and easy.
Aaron never had it easy. Ever.
And so he hated the man, just like he hated all the others.
Despite himself, Aaron inhaled deeply, drawing in the man’s cologne. Aaron always had a thing for scents and smells. In fact, he often thought of all his senses as being highly attuned. Especially his sense of taste.
He looked past his attorney, his small darting eyes finding the faces of those sitting in the courtroom beyond. Hundreds of faces, belonging to everyone from family members and friends, to the media and the damn curious. Expressions ranging from revulsion to amusement to horror. And all were staring at him. Every one of them.
Just another freak show, he thought.
As he gazed at the crowd, as he watched those watching him, he did what he always did, what many in the crowd had noticed throughout the course of this outrageous trial:
He opened his mouth, just a little, and the tip of his tongue poked out as he unconsciously ran it back and forth along his upper incisors. He did this for perhaps ten seconds—
And then he opened his mouth a little more, as he always did. Now his roaming tongue stopped at his massive canines—teeth that projected down from his upper jaw like mighty ivory stalactites—
Wet, gleaming tongue sliding down one of the freakishly long stalactites—the right one, in fact—down, down this massive fang, stopping finally at the tip. There it paused, and, like an elephant’s curious trunk, gently tapped the tip of the tooth. Tapped it hesitantly, as if testing it. Tapped it carefully, as if fearful of it. Tapped it again and again and again...
“Aaron, can you please recount for the court the events that led to the killing of Annie Hox?”
The long tongue retracted like a frightened turtle and his lips slammed shut and the young man turned his attention away from a frowning older woman sitting in the second row—a woman who seemed to be staring at him almost sideways, as if afraid to look the devil in the eye. Aaron Parker settled his gaze onto the smooth-shaven face of the defense attorney.
“Where would you like me to begin?” Aaron asked shyly, speaking in such a way that his lips barely moved, a way that completely concealed his teeth.
“At the beginning,” said the attorney.
“The beginning...was a long time ago,” said Aaron.
“Remember, Aaron, this is a new jury. They haven’t heard your case.”
The young man chuckled softly. “All they had to do was turn on the TV.”
“Please, Aaron, just tell us your story.”
The young man inhaled deeply and motioned vaguely to his mouth. He said, “I suppose it all started when they grew in.”
“They, Aaron?”
“My teeth, of course.”
“Thank you, Aaron, now will you please display your teeth to the jury?”
Aaron felt his pulse quicken. He was always aware of his own pulse. Vigilantly aware. And it quickened now because showing his teeth went against his every instinct. Showing his teeth inspired questions. Showing his teeth induced ridicule. Showing his teeth had often gotten him beat up, and worse.
“Please, Aaron, this is important.”
Dance for us, monkey boy, thought Aaron.
Not wanting to see their reactions, he closed his eyes and turned his face toward the jury box. And opened his mouth. He might not have seen their faces, but he heard the gasps. And he heard their fervent whisperings.
I am more than my teeth.
“That’s quite enough, Aaron,” said his attorney. “Thank you.”
Now they know you’re a freak, thought Aaron.
Yeah? So what else is new?
He closed his mouth and slumped back in the chair, trying unsuccessfully to hide, and found himself staring up once again at the defense attorney. The man was indeed good-looking: muscular neck, strong jaw, square shoulders. Aaron went back to his clean-shaven neck, which was roped with thick muscle. And he kept on looking, searching really...
Ah, there it is.
The man’s jugular vein, pulsing steadily, strongly. Aaron’s stomach growled. Loudly.
The attorney heard the young man’s stomach growl, saw the laser-focused intent in the young man’s eyes. He paused in mid-pace.
Jesus, he’s staring at you again, he thought. No, he’s staring at your neck.
The attorney, despite himself, swallowed.
But Aaron was no longer thinking of the attorney. Indeed, as he gazed upon the man’s neck he found himself thinking of Annie Hox. Specifically, her blood. Her sweet, salty, precious, delicious blood.
The young man felt an immediate swelling in his pants.
The attorney, who found the young man’s gaze disco
ncerting at best, stammered slightly as he spoke again: “So, your problems began, Aaron, when your teeth grew in?”
“Yes.”
“In particular, the canines.”
“Yes.”
“The canines—often called cuspids, dog teeth, or fangs—are generally the longest of the mammalian teeth. Most species have four per individual, two in the upper jaw and two in the lower, all separated by the shorter and flatter incisors.”
Aaron almost smiled. “If you say so.”
“Would it be accurate to say that your adult canines grew in too long?” said the attorney.
This time, Aaron did smile. “I would say so.”
The attorney now moved over to the defense table, picked up an index card, and read from it: “Abnormal or excessive canine growth is a rare phenomenon, afflicting one in eleven million. It’s considered an atavism, or a throwback gene, something that was necessary to our species hundreds of thousands of years ago, but not so much now.”
“Lucky me,” said Aaron.
“How old were you when your adult canines grew in, Aaron?”
“Seven.”
“Did the other kids ever call you names?”
“Of course.”
“Kids can be mean,” said the attorney, frowning, nodding sympathetically. Personalize the examination, he thought. Humanize the killer. Reach out to the jury. “Cruel, even. What sort of names did they call you, Aaron?”
The young man had spent a lifetime trying to forget the names, trying to forget the nightmare that was his childhood. But here, in this courtroom, there was no forgetting.
Not after what you’ve done.
And so he dutifully answered the question: “Aaroncula was a favorite. So was Scarin’ Aaron. But mostly they just called me Fang.”
“Did not the kids at your school come up with a song?” asked the attorney.
“Yes,” said Aaron. And thank you for reminding me of that, asshole.
“Would you sing it for us, Aaron?”
As the young man cleared his throat, the crowd leaned forward. This isn’t ‘American Idol’, people, he thought. Now, ‘American Vampire’ is a different story...