The girl met the boy at the bar.
He was wearing sweater mittens.
She said, “Heaven forbid you fall into the hipster trap!
No respectable vampire would wear
Sweater mittens, or any form of knit whatsoever.”
There was a gleam of teeth,
Whale bone teeth – kind of like vampire dentures, except
Vampires didn’t wear dentures, they just got old and their
Teeth marbleized to the point where they could no longer bite.
It was their version of vintage.
“What should one wear then?” The boy asked.
He tried to inquire, he tried to request, but unfortunately
Words like that made him laugh, so he just asked.
“Top hats, trench coats, and perhaps herringbone. Gloves, certainly,
though we feel no Cold whatsoever – we are the Cold, or night, the hideous.”
She wore contacts – the kind they had specially made
The kind that hid the pearly whites
The corpse dead eyes
Once or twice her eyes would flit over to the other patrons
They would flinch and look away
The living knew the dead – they always knew the dead
Even when they wore contacts
He was brand new – less than fifty years, old enough to still
Remember the last sunset, the first deep bite
After a while the brain started to go
The memory writ in stone, as you turned to stone
“But no sweater mittens! By the gods!” The girl signaled
For a drink, a draught, something deep
The older you got, the hungrier you were
He bought her a drink.
Left the sweater mittens on the bar. He didn’t need them much.
His fingertips were always frozen, and he never felt
I’m doing little bits experiments with poetry and prose, and hopefully this came out right. I was surprised at the tone, and at the appearance of sweater mittens. I can’t decide if sweater mittens are the newest in fugly, or the next best thing on earth. Some days when I write I feel like I should convert my desk into one of those 19th century-esque labs, or I’ve just been playing Victorian age-steampunk-style games too much.
A bit of an absence from me due to three things: work, NaNoWriMo (I’m trying, really), more work and Dishonored.