A Work of Pure Genius

This was written years ago by my one of my uber bestest friends in the world, Noel (I kept your stuff in my hard drive!). I was totally blown away by this story, and apparently, it took him a grand total of just five minutes to write it. Dude, you're on your way to perfecting the art of flash fiction. And hey, you should send me your new sketches. I wish you the best of luck in becoming the ultimate Renaissance Man :-)

Here's to all the liters of Red Horse which defined our friendship, all the lazy hours  swapping the corniest jokes at Oz Cafe/Brothers'/the Main Lib/Watering Hole, all the conversations laced with absolutely wicked humor (The Impregnator! Soon to be a graphic novel!), all the crazy afternoons spent at arcades trying to whip each other's asses at racing games, hoops and air hockey...basta! Miss ya supah mucho! Send my love to Angeli :-)

******************************************************************************

A Poor Count Dracula Story

It was the 1920s. Dracula was afraid of spires. Dracula was afraid of other buildings atop other hilltops, obstructing his view of the great Transylvanian scenery all around. At night he would rise from his crypt and his heart would sink, looking at the other houses, some that blocked even the sanguine shape of the full moon. More and more houses were being built by more and more people. Peasants were building houses, villagers were building houses, mountains were being peppered with houses. Houses were everywhere. Dracula was afraid of houses. Dracula was afraid of architecture. He could turn himself into mist, bat, wolf, decay, any form of insect and he was afraid of architecture. He was afraid of building plans. He was afraid of the population encroaching his territory. And they were building. He could suck their blood and filch the souls off their bodies and these were all powerless to stop him yet he was afraid of cement and bricks and mortar. Dracula cried tears of blood and he shivered thinking of chimneys and windows and the compactness of stone. He was wary of hitting his head against stone. Dracula would stare at his own castle’s walls and over and over again ram his own body, inhuman, bat or wolf again and again against the hard stone. He did not wish to imagine the pain of hitting the stone from other people’s houses and so he began breaking his bones against his castle’s walls so that he may be made infirm and incapable of traveling out. But the houses were still waiting for him. He had never felt that much fear before.

One night, he stabbed his own heart and jumped from atop his castle’s walls. One by one, the villagers came out to stare at his body. Their laughs echoed throughout the night and a feast was held in the morn. Their houses laughed and ate the Count’s bones.