Country Fangs

It was summer in Normal, Arkansas, which means that it was hot, bright, sunny, and all around miserable. Aside from that, our small town was still breathtaking. The smell of flowers drifted through the afternoon air, slightly masking the scent of cow manure and chicken poop. Oddly enough, I didn’t mind the mixture, in fact it had taken on a sort of homey feel for me.

I leaned against my white fence, people watching, as I sipped from my mug of iced coffee with a dash of blood. The sunlight was vaguely itchy on my skin, but I didn’t sparkle, and I didn’t turn to dust, so I stood outside laughing at all those inferior Vampires.

“Good morning, Jean,” Mary Jane called from across our small road, using my French birthname. “What’s so funny?” She was out in her large straw hat, jean shorts, floral t-shirt, and matching flip flops as she knelt on a bright, pink pad. She was elbows deep into a rather thick flowering bush, with weeds and pruned plant sections scattered all around her.

Even though we do periodically change our names to upkeep a mortal appearance, us Vampires tend to refer to each other by our birth names. Figured out it saves long term confusion.

I held my arm out, my skin not as pale as one might expect, and turned it in the sunlight. “Still not sparkling, still not turning to ash.”

“Still no wind of death, don’tcha know,” MJ pointed out with a chuckle. “Those with titles like that don’t sleep in till noon.”

“I get it, Miss Wendigo.” I took another sip from the straw. It was one of those double walled tumblers and a reusable plastic straw that I had poured resin-based paints all over. Some would say it’s an utter mess, but I had grown fond of it.

Mary Jane is one of the oldest Vampires I’ve ever met, with one major exception. There was a Norse Landstone found in either Canada or northern Minnesota, I forget which, but she claims to have painted it after her husband carved it. She turned shortly thereafter. Then, she took to the wind with her sire sparking legends of the Wendigo and other threats to travelers in the North Woods. Or maybe she was turned on the way to Vinland. She never tells the story the same way twice, though once civilization came around, she stayed in the northern parts of Minnesota and Wisconsin until moving down here about twenty-five years ago.

Needless to say, her accent is loved by all.

“Oh Jean, no need to call me that,” she smiled warmly at me from her flowers. “We’re in the modern world now.”

“Alright, MJ,” I laughed. “Whatever you wish.”

“Ya know, why doesn’t anyone call me by my birth name like everyone else does ’round here?” She looked honestly hurt.

I shrugged. “Considering I can’t even pronounce your name; I think everyone agrees that MJ is just easier to say than…” I trailed off, trying to pronounce some ungodly long ancient Norse name and failing epically.

My attempt, however, did get her to laugh. “Oh, thank you, Jean,” she grinned. “Whatcha plannin’ on painting today?”

“Not sure,” I thought for a moment. “Maybe I’ll pull out the bucket, do something BIG.” I finished with exaggeration.

“Is everything about you big?” she smirked. “You said the same thing yesterday, ya know.”

With her normally blonde hair dyed gray, and with creases added with high-end make up, I felt suddenly very awkward, like I was being hit on by my thousand-year-old grandmother.

I might have turned several shades redder, which only made her sly laugh gain volume.

“Oh, don’tcha know that I was turned in my teens, I don’t always look like an old granny, nor do I always act like it, eh,” she winked.

“God just, just stop,” I stammered. “Can you not hit on someone for a day?”

“Yeah, no.” For a moment I swore that she was using magic to cast a glamour, but that’d mean she’d have to have blood of the Sidhe within her or be Blessed, or heck even be a first-generation Vampire. I didn’t think that any fae descent could be turned, and Logan was the only Vampire I knew who carried a Blessing. But even after almost three hundred years there are still a few things that can surprise you.

“Besides,” she continued, “the dottering old grandma who hits on all the young whippersnappers she sees is soooo fun to play.”

I rolled my eyes as I turned away. She had been playing that persona since she moved in, slowly adding grayer and whiter color to her hair and more wrinkles in her make-up before finally “killing off” the granny and adopting a young college student and repeating the whole horny shebang once again. Or at least so she claims.

“Oh, Jean?” she called.

I stopped and turned around. She rose from her flowers and was leaning over her fence. “Have you heard from Robert lately?” She used the French pronunciation of the name.

Robert de Boismont, or simply Bob Smith, was a Vampire turned around the Battle of Agincourt. He was the one who found me in Versailles after my turning during the French Revolution.

“No, Bob hasn’t called me recently,” I shook my head. “Last week he said he was going out on a hike, probably won’t be back for another day or so. He’s got a service that comes in to take care of his lawn and house.”

“Oh, I know.” She wiggled gleefully like a little girl. “They’re so super nice and respectful. Pity none of them are into, oh, how do they put it, cougars, ya know?” She flashed her hand as she spoke, wiggling her fingers excitedly.

“I guess,” This was getting awkward. Or was it just staying that way?

“Anyway, Jean, let me know if he calls, ok? I get worried when you youngsters go away for so long,” she batted her eyelashes.

I eyed her warily. “Don’t tell me...”

She laughed merrily. “Then I won’t.”

I choked on my coffee, spilling some and spraying from my nose as I tried to avoid a spit take. I winced as the hot liquid burned the sinus cavity on its way out.

“Just, go back to your flowers, MJ,” I spluttered.

I heard her chuckling as I turned around and went back into my house, scratching at an itch on the back of my neck from being out in the sun.

My house, and really all the houses in our small town, was a Tudor style two story building, three bedrooms on the upper level, my own master bearing a second fireplace and a private veranda. I had warm wooden furniture, a wreath over the fireplace, farm style table, hand carved chairs, warm rugs over wooden floors, hanging lights, and a large piano.

The stairs to the second level and the basement were in the dining room. I paused, debating if I really wanted to drag out all the big stuff for a large canvas or if I just wanted to stick with something small. Setting the now empty mug down on the side table, I chose to go downstairs to the big studio.

I had my basement split up into thirds. The back third was dedicated to my panic room, hidden behind bookcases and shelves filled with statues and other artifacts that I claimed as “reproductions.” My panic room was a small apartment, complete with a small kitchenette and storage for my savings and other items.

One third was my large studio, completely covered in plastic sheeting. A large turntable was in the center, perfectly leveled, and a rope was centered over that, the other end on a hook inset in the wall, the sheeting taped around it.

The last third was my washroom and storage. Large buckets of paint waited there, and some well-used buckets with holes in the base. Canvases of different sizes leaned against the wall near the shelves that hid the saferoom. I grabbed two of those and started ferrying cans of paint into the covered room.

Once everything was in place, I grabbed a canvas, measuring meticulously to make sure it was just barely off center on the turntable. I wanted something that was slightly asymmetrical. I tied the holey bucket to the rope, testing the height before hooking the handle on the hook, and getting in a body suit to keep my clothes from getting coated in paint.

It was time to get messy.

I opened the black base canister and dramatically tossed about half of it onto the canvas. Using my gloves, I spread the paint evenly across the canvas. I was using that easy flowing style of acrylic paints from those viral poured paint videos, so the base layer spread quickly and with little effort.

Next, I corked a hole drilled into the base of the large bucket hanging from the wall. A quick, soft tug test showed that it wasn’t coming off easily. From there, I filled the bucket with blues, purples, and a touch of silver all with silicone added in to give a neat cells effect to the piece.

Trying hard not to giggle insanely, I easily hoisted the bucket from the hook. I might look human, but as a Vampire all our physical limitations are gone. Those pesky little aspects of your brain keep you from pushing yourself so hard that you hurt yourself, so the bucket lifted as easily as one would lift a cup of water.

In one smooth motion, I grabbed the release tab to the cork, yanked it off, and pushed the now-leaking bucket in a circular motion over the canvas on the floor.

Colorful paint spilled out from the base of the pendulum-bucket, falling into neat lines across the oversized canvas on the floor. It spun around the canvas twice before becoming empty. I caught it and returned it to the hook.

Then, I took a propane torch and carefully ran it over the top of the canvas, making sure not to touch the surface, to pop any bubbles. I failed and needed to rotate it a little more to hide a handprint or two.

As I straightened and untied the bucket to replace the smaller bucket with fewer holes, the cells started to appear, the silver shining through like stars in the night sky.

To the new bucket I added brighter blues, light purples, gold, red, and a matte mix. The gold had mica, so the shimmer wouldn’t be affected by the matte. I omitted silicone, I didn’t want this bit to turn into cells.

I forcefully pushed this one in a wider arc. It spiraled down, color spinning on the canvas. I yanked the dripping bucket away from the canvas before too many single drops could affect the lines that were just laid and hooked the bucket to the wall.

For the last spin, I grabbed a corner of the canvas, shifting it over that extra bit to be centered on the turntable, and gave it a good, fast twist.

The cells widened and the lines grew featherlike veins as they all reached towards the edges of the canvas, drawn by centrifugal force. The result was full of movement and subtle variations cut through with bright and shining silvers and golds. I was happy; it was a good piece and should sell rather fast.

I took off the plastic jumpsuit and left the room to let the canvas dry. I was wondering what I should do next, when my doorbell rang.