Observations of the Species

Hi all,

As per my usual, I wrote two stories for my NYC Midnight. This one, written later, is the product of 3 o’clock in the morning and an abundance of caffeine. It’s also the one I like less and the one I didn’t submit. It has received considerably less editing/revising/attention/love than the other story, so keep that in mind when you encounter a typo or some such… But, of course, you’re welcome to read it, if you wish.

Prompt:

Genre: Romantic Comedy
Location: A Grotto
Object: A Ping-Pong Paddle

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Caught outside of his native environment, the young North American male creates as much noise as possible, in order to scare off predators,” she said quietly, affecting a ridiculous Australian accent.

 

Alexis drifted to the back of the group. She’d hoped to avoid them, this one time.

 

“Far from a rare species,” she continued, quietly speaking to herself in that same atrocious accent. “The young North American male has taken it upon itself to spread the population round the world, traveling to rare, exotic locales, and filling the air with its primary communicative call of “More beer!”

 

Thus far, this particular invasive species had been the plague of her summer. She’d been looking forward to spending her summer backpacking around Europe. Alas, every location she visited had already been invaded by the Common American Bro.

 

She’d hoped that by signing up for a group hike, instead of going down to the beach, she’d be able to avoid the worst of them. She’d been wrong, as evidenced by the flock of college-aged bros ahead of her on the trail. She sighed – she still wanted to see Aphrodite’s grotto, which was up the mountain at the end of their hike. It was supposed to be beautiful.

 

She wasn’t about to let a herd of bros stop her from seeing it.

 

What did you call a group of them anyway? A flock? A herd? A team?

 

“A pack of collegiate North American males, commonly referred to as “bros” will stick together in the wild, ensuring pack safety.”

 

The soft voice beside her almost jolted her to a stop. Around her own age – early 20-something – the girl kept pace beside her, wearing sneakers, jeans, a tank top, and a roguish smile. Her light brown hair was cut to chin length, and a baseball cap cast her face in shadow – although it was too late – sun-darkened freckles dotted her cheeks.

 

“I’m Jane,” the girl said, reaching her hand out for a quick shake.

 

Alexis took her hand for a moment, before raising a finger to her lips with a smile.

 

“We need to be quiet,” she said. “So as not to spook the pack.”

 

Jane grinned, and the girls returned their attentions to their anthropological observation.

 

Alexis caught Jane’s gaze and rolled her eyes at the bros, noting the ping-pong paddles that dangled from a strap on one of their backpacks, casually spanking the aforementioned bro on his khaki cargo-short-covered butt.

 

“The average collegiate North American male is ever-prepared for a ‘party’, as evidenced by their consistent supply of beer, chips, and red solo cups, contained within backpacks, which are a form of traditional garb, toted everywhere by these fascinating creatures,” Jane noted, faux-Australian accent still intact.

 

“While the ‘bro’ can survive on other liquids, such as water or soda, ‘beer’ or specialty beverages commonly referred to as ‘energy drinks’ are the primary source of hydration,” Alexis added.

 

Silently, they watched for a few more minutes as they continued hiking up the mountain, taking in some of the beautiful scenery that surrounded them, in addition to the obnoxious group ahead of them.

 

A whoop from ahead grabbed their attention, pulling their eyes away from the pine forest that surrounded them and the boundless blue sky above them.

 

“This particular species cannot survive long in silence, needing to draw attention to itself with loud, harsh cries that draw a response from the rest of the pack,” Jane smirked, as the rest of the bros whooped in reply.

 

“So many of the customs belonging to this species stem from a need for attention, from their brightly-colored plumage” – Alexis nodded at their idiotically bright t-shirts – “to their constant need to create noise.”

 

The girls smirked at each other as they continued up the path.

 

Thankfully, Aphrodite’s grotto wasn’t very much farther up the path. They followed the pack of bros into the cave.

 

The guide books had been right, Alexis thought – it was beautiful. Algae blooms created glowing blue light in the darkness, illuminating statue of the goddess that stood guard over the pool of water at the river’s mouth.

 

The bros didn’t hesitate, stripping off t-shirts and backpacks and leaping into the cool water. The splashing they made almost, but not quite drowned out the voice of their tour guide.

 

The tour guide stood by the statue and began to speak anyway, trying her best to ignore the bros, despite the fact that her trousers were already soaked to the knee from their splashing.

 

Alexis and Jane stripped off their shoes and sat down on the rim of the pool, dunking their feet into the water as they listened.

 

The guide explained that the cave was traditionally considered sacred to Aphrodite, the goddess of love, and the water that flowed from it was considered to be a boon from the goddess.

 

Girls from the village at the foot of the mountain were sent up to the cave on the eve of their 16^th birthdays, the guide explained, to bathe in the goddess’s water, so that they could receive her blessing and ask for her help in finding love.

 

Emerging from the water at her feet, like an annoying dolphin, dark hair slicked back and teeth so white they almost glowed in the darkness, one of the dude bros splashed Alexis, grinning up at her.

 

“How about you, babe?” he asked, waggling his eyebrows. “You looking to find love in Aphrodite’s grotto?”

 

“No,” Alexis said, thoughtfully.

 

She smiled, and reached over to take Jane’s hand, twining their fingers together.

 

“I wasn’t looking for love,” she said. “But I think I might’ve found it.”

 

 

Seeking

My most recent entry for the NYC Midnight flash fiction competition. I actually wrote two… I’ll be posting the other one shortly:

 

 

“Seeking a warm-hearted partner to spend my nights with. I’m looking for someone who’s sweet, funny and adventurous. Seeking someone understanding, who’s ready to take a few risks. I’m a night owl, and I’d love to explore the city at night with someone special. I enjoy swimming in the ocean, moon-lit walks on the beach and late-night ping pong tournaments at Harry’s on 18^th Street (they serve the best warm beer). Reply if you’re ready to take a bite out of life.”

Holly gnawed her fingernail and read the post again, for the third time. She normally browsed Craigslist personals for laughs, but every now and then, she looked at the WforW section. She’d never responded to one before… but she’d never wanted to respond to one as badly as she did now. This girl sounded perfect – and everything was spelled right. She knew she’d always wonder if she didn’t respond. So, she took a chance.

“Dear Seeking,” she typed.

******

Holly’s heart thudded as she got off the bus. Meeting at the grotto off the 23^rd Street beach at midnight seemed like a wildly romantic idea at the time. She wore her favorite black sandals and her lucky green dress, wanting to look her best for her secret midnight assignation. Now it just seemed stupid and possibly dangerous.

She clutched the ping pong paddle to her chest as she entered the cave. ‘Seeking’ – a.k.a Victoria – had requested the paddle “so I know it’s you.”

Which seemed a little beside the point now… how many people hung out in an abandoned grotto after midnight?

Not many, apparently.

Holly was alone, clutching her paddle.

Victoria was right about one thing – it was beautiful. Bioluminescent algae bloomed in the tide that washed the depths of the cave, and the rock walls reflected the light back, so the cave glowed with the reflected light of a million blue-and-green stars.

The bats hanging on the ceiling, however, were a less desirable feature.

Holly looked up at the source of the squeaking. Correction: bat, singular. How odd.

The squeaking stopped. A breeze sweep through the cave, brushing her gold-red hair off her shoulders.

Moments later, she was wrapped up in a tight hug.

“You came!”

Victoria stepped back to look at her. Holly self-consciously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and pushed her glasses farther up her nose.

“I’m so glad you came!” Victoria squeaked. “You look beautiful. Craigslist is so hit-or-miss – you never know… You could’ve been a serial killer. Or a Trump supporter. Or a Mormon.”

She shuddered, imagining those possibilities.

Huh.

Holly looked her up and down. Victoria was just as she’d described herself – long, black hair flowed down her back, and crystal-blue eyes shone in a pale face. Her little black dress accentuated every curve, and for a moment Holly was distracted. Blushing, she forced herself to focus.

Dark hair. Pale skin. A bright smile with unusually sharp teeth. And the bat that had mysteriously disappeared.

Holly gulped, dropping Victoria’s hand, which seemed to have found its way into hers.

“You’re not a … are you?”

Gulp.

“Are you a vampire?”

“‘Course I am. Is that going to be a problem?”

“I…. don’t know.”

And she didn’t know. She’d dated goth girls before, but a real vampire? This was uncharted territory.

Victoria’s face turned serious.

“You’re not one of those people, are you?” she asked. “Because you seemed really sweet and open-minded when we were emailing. I’d hate to think you’re the kind of person who discriminates based on stupid old stereotypes.”

Holly paused. Was she that kind of person? She thought of the marches she’d attended, toting brightly-colored homemade signs. She hadn’t thought she was….

Victoria looked hurt. She sat on the edge of the grotto, dunking her feet into the water, stirring it with her toes.

“My family doesn’t understand me. They think my romantic preferences are ‘unnatural’.”

She air-quoted the last word with her fingers.

“They think I’ll get over it eventually,” she continued. “I mean… I’m 107 years old – I’m not a child. And you can’t help who you love.”

Holly couldn’t help sympathizing. Her family had been understanding when she’d come out in high school, but she knew a lot of people hadn’t been as lucky. And a disapproving family that was functionally immortal was probably much worse than regular disapproving parents.

She sat down next to Victoria, and covered the woman’s hand with hers.

“I’m sorry. My family has always been accepting of my relationships with women. It must be hard when your family doesn’t understand you.”

Victoria looked up with a confused smirk.

“Women? My family is cool with women. They don’t understand my need to have relationships with humans. They’re all ‘stop playing with your food’ and ‘why can’t you settle down with a nice Yeti?’ My relationship with Wendy the Wendigo ended decades ago, and my mom is still harping on about her.”

She pitched her voice higher, mimicking her mother.

“Wendy was soooo nice’, ‘Wendy was sweet’, and ‘Why doesn’t Wendy come around anymore?’” She rolled her eyes. “Wendy was a sociopath. She’d go from nice and sweet to wanting to tear your head off in thirty seconds. You can’t have a relationship with someone like that.”

Holly nodded. She’d had ex-girlfriends like that, although hers hadn’t been capable of physically tearing someone’s head off, so maybe it was different.

Victoria met her eyes and smiled. Holly thought she had a beautiful smile, extra-sharp incisors aside.

“You can’t help who you love,” Victoria said again.

That much, Holy knew, was true.

Victoria was gorgeous. She was clever and funny. And she wasn’t a Mormon or a Trump supporter.

Just how high were Holly’s standards if she was willing to let this woman slip away?

She shrugged.

So what if Victoria wasn’t human?

Nobody was perfect.