A Tale as Old as Time
By Stacy Benedict
(c) 2024
Dear Lady Nightshade,
I’m sure you’ve heard this one before—the tale of boy meets girl. Mine begins after a long Saturday night spent lurking in a failing bar. Pickin’s were slim, and I was running out of time.
At about 11, he sauntered in.
He was young, classically handsome, rowdy, and loud—as many young men are these days—but best of all, he drank. Shots. Beer. More shots. A couple glasses of some brown liquor. Even more beer. He stumbled out of Harry’s Bar at three a.m., friendless from having picked a fight with everyone he’d arrived with over the course of four hours and
copious drinks. The smell of cigarettes and beer oozed from his pores, and something
yellow stained his white button-down shirt, which had become untucked and horribly
wrinkled—a stark contrast from when he’d arrived earlier in the night.
So, obviously, he was perfect.
I followed him to his car. Can you believe it was parked in a lot about a block away, which
was deserted no less, with nary a streetlamp to mar the occasion?
Little did I know at the time, but my night was shaping into a Shakespearean dream.
He barely had a moment to slur out the words, “Heey, wassup, maaan?” before my fangs
were embedded in his jugular.
Sweet relief washed over me. I’d waited too long and gotten desperate. His salty, bitter
plasma eased the craving that ruled me. I would have drained him dry if not for the
piercing sound that startled me from my blood daze.
Across the parking lot stood the queerest sight. I’d expected to see a banshee or some
other wailing creature, furious at me for feeding in their territory without the common
courtesy of asking first. Instead, an ebony horse stomped its hoof. The rider was similarly
clothed in black. Black boots, black pants, a flowing black shirt, covered by a tight black
leather corset vest. She was a lean figure who sat on her mount with the obvious control
of an experienced rider. Her back was straight, as if made with steel cable.
In these modern times of cars, trains, and airplanes, seeing a woman on horseback in
the downtown district at three in the morning was, well, different.
From her side, she unfurled the only color on her person—a long white whip. She
cracked it, snapping the air once, twice. The whip seemed to be made of leather, but on
further inspection, it consisted of bones—many small, sharp bones.
I dropped my young man and stared in awe at her. He hit the ground with a thud, and I
stepped over his limp body, forgetting his existence in an instant. Such magnificence she
was.
I longed to know her face, to know the color of her eyes, the angle of her cheekbones, the shape of her brow. Was her nose sloped, upturned, or small and round?
There was no way to tell. Alas, she was headless, and so was her horse.
Remembering my manners, I bowed and started to introduce myself, but a shrill cry that sounded like a horse being stabbed to death cut me off.
She cracked her whip a third time and reared her horse high.
I barely had time to say, Do you come here often, before she charged me.
Down the barren streets I fled, running as fast as my preternatural legs would take me.
Every time I lengthened the distance between us, the horse surged to a greater speed.
Soon, I felt the sting of her whip on my back. The bony spikes stripping away fabric from
my jacket and reaching my flesh beneath. Because of the man from the bar, I had the
strength to run faster than any car, yet because of the alcohol he’d consumed, I
stumbled and collided into anything in front of me. My leap over a car was more like a
headlong dive into it and a haphazard scrambling over it. I crashed through Stop signs
and dented a mailbox. Every misstep brought the whip down to remove several layers of
skin and tissue.
The horrendous baying of the horse echoed in my head like a ghost of sins past.
Blood soaked me from head to waist, and my feet ached from popped blisters.
I grew tired of our cat-and-mouse game, so I darted into the nearest alley. She could have finished me off an hour earlier yet hadn’t. The sun would soon rise, and I needed to either hide from its rays or make a final stand against my pursuer.
The alley reeked of all things human—trash and urine and rot. Somehow, humans stank worse now than in the past when indoor plumbing, daily baths, and toothpaste weren’t available.
My fair headless lady galloped into the alley and stopped midway. The yellow light from
the streetlamp and illuminated advertising billboard framed her from behind and above.
The mount screamed again. The noise stabbed my eardrums, as if to wreck them
permanently.
To my surprise, she dismounted. She stood about a foot shorter than me, headless of
course, which endeared her to me even more. She opened the saddlebag and took out
her head. She had a beautiful face indeed.
Deep brown eyes. A small button nose. Long, wavy black hair that draped over her arm.
My stomach fluttered with each step she took closer.
What do I say to someone so refined?
“My lady.” I bowed low and with flair. “Forgive me for invading your territory. I’m passing
through and miscalculated my feeding time.”
Her arm drew back.
I had forgotten the whip.
There was a loud crack, and my eyeball went flying. A millisecond later, another crack,
and the other one joined the first in the muck of the dank alley. I doubled over, holding
my face, and screamed in agony.
“I don’t care for men who make excuses,” she said in a thick Scottish accent.
When I had first turned, I’d stubbornly exposed my pinkie finger to the sun, not believing
I could no longer walk during the day as I always had. The pain was nothing I’d ever felt
before or again until now.
I heaved the contents of my long-empty stomach. Not only was I in excruciating pain and
had lost my sight with a scant hour before the sun would unleash its blight, but I’d also
angered this stunning creature.
Her footsteps retreated.
“Wait!” I cried out. “I was wrong and selfish. Please give me a chance to rectify my
injustice to you and your territory.”
Her steps paused, and her boots scraped the pavement as she turned to face me.
“How?”
And that, Lady Nightshade, is how I met my girlfriend, Siobhan.
My question is, do you believe a romantic relationship between an older gentleman
vampire and a Dulluah can last long-term, and if so, how? The forces of the night are
against our union. Any support and advice would be much appreciated.
Sincerely,
Love in Many Forms
Dear LIMF,
Love at one point was outlawed for our kind, but with time, that changed. Interspecies love is frowned upon by the night and goes against the Death Lord’s decree, but beliefs change, and most don’t follow the old ways. Some would say to our detriment while others would disagree. The former grows smaller each decade. My advice to you and other night creatures in the throes of love that is forbidden is to live. We’re forced into
darkness, but that doesn’t mean we need to be alone. Care for each other. Celebrate each other and your differences. Kill humans with each other. Do all the fun couple things to your heart’s desire. Let your love be your light of day.
Sincerely,
Lady Nightshade
Dear Lady Nightshade,
Thank you for your generous advice. It’s welcome wisdom to a night creature who sometimes struggles to walk the fine line between the old and the new ways of the night. Not long ago, my tale of love moved into a different phase.
Siobhan and I have parted ways.
Sadly, the boy has lost the girl. Or rather she wants to “keep things casual and isn’t looking to settle down for eternity with just one immortal.”
An open relationship isn’t for me.
But I have gained more than I have lost because of my love for her. One day, I will find
the lady for me. Until then, I’ll keep searching with an open heart.
There is now an app to aid in my journey.
These modern times are strange.
Sincerely,
Love in Many Forms
I hope you liked this month’s flash fiction story. The books in my urban fantasy series are available on Amazon. Please let me know your thoughts by liking, commenting, and/or subscribing. Also, you can join my mailing list by clicking here.
stacy benedict 