I was born August 8, 1980, and I died March 21, 2002, when I was bitten on leave in Ethiopia. The incident was covered up for the sake of national security, of course. Imagine the public panic if word got out that Special Operations was using vampires in combat. Though the SEALs are known for unconventional warfare in combat, a vampire medic is another level of “unconventional.” Try “other-worldly” or a Saturday afternoon straight-to-DVD sci-fi flick.

You miss out on so much when you are dead. Of course, there’s the obvious family stuff–weddings, children’s first days of school, aging in the annual family portrait–but there’s also the subtle rites and rituals I used to enjoy–the morning sun hitting my face as I paddle out for one more wave before heading to base, getting drunk in an Imperial Beach squid bar after something goes FUBAR, coming home to Esther (who stuck it out for four years after the incident before moving on to a living boyfriend), looking forward to retirement. Even relating to my buddies’ injuries. I can’t even remember my sore shoulder after Hell Week.

a butterfly’s wings
gossamer, flapping in the wind—
tick and tock of life

Of course, immortality has its advantages. I can stay out in the Coronado surf indefinitely without concern of hypothermia. I’ve probably died over a hundred times taking a bullet or a grenade for Eddy, Brown, and T; there’s no shortage of terrorist blood in those firefights to patch up a hole or two. Staying the same pant size has cut down on clothing expenditure, and I can pull off fashion trends the second time around. Or third. Or fourth.

We’re not all the tortured Louise’s or cavalier Lestat’s. Most of us are somewhere in between, trying to carve out a day-to-day life with some purpose or understanding of the world around us. Make an honest living. Find love. Find life after love. Art is trickier, though. Most creative works emanate from the urgency mortality bestows–fears of danger and death, grief mixed with hope of uniting in an afterlife, the gift of each second or breath as potentially one’s last.

Mona Lisa smile—
loves won and lost,
the one that got away

Work goes on much as it did before the incident. Night missions carry on as they did for years before that night, though I am saddled with a bit heavier a load than before–extra medical supplies, extra ammo, an occasional tank. My unit burns through considerably less C4 these days, as I simply remove the buttressed steel doors for hassle-free infil. Day missions are a bit trickier, and I’m sure the day will eventually come when I can’t don a full burqa and blend in with my surroundings.

I do feel the bloodlust during battle, but it’s nothing more than what is common to man. Hunting dinner on the African plain or Georgia woods. Fighting the enemy after watching a close friend die in battle–just read some of the Medal of Honor citations. It’s only natural that the dark gift bolsters in battle. Some might say it’s an unfair advantage in combat, but terrorist organizations have been using vampires as weapons of mass destruction since the mujahedeen. Heck, Mossad’s elite of the elite have been mainly vampires since Munich, and there’s credible intel that Spetsnaz has experimented with a vampire group above Alpha.

grim reaper creeping
through the bedroom window—
headlights through the tree

I don’t know when vampires first fought alongside humans in battle. Dracula is a clever myth–as are crosses and holy water. I personally prefer yarmulkes and menorahs, but, to each his own. I don’t buy the Judas Conjecture, either. I scoured the ancient texts after the bite, hoping to find answers, and vampires are ancient. Mesopotamian myths, particularly the Alphabet of Sirach in Judaism and ancient cuneiform texts from the Sumerians and Akkadians, point to Lilith as the first, the original wife of Adam and possible tempter of the serpent who felled humanity. One might even venture that the Angel of Death passing over the houses marked with blood was actually a vampire.

Yes, immortality does have its advantages in combat, but you’re cursed to drift from battle to battle and war to war, carrying loss for all eternity and watching your friends medically retired by training accidents and battle wounds. I’m sure I’ll face a different type of “medical retirement” should I ever develop symptoms of PTSD. A vampire with flashbacks, gnawing at a mirage. In a shared bunker. Or a training drill. They’d never allow it. Even I shudder at the thought.

dog chasing its tail—
the food chain
going in reverse

But, for now, I’m an 18D medic, saving lives rather than taking them (minus a sanctioned snacking on the enemy from time to time). Casualties have been down 70% since I was bitten. Our op tempo has picked up considerably. And the great whites that circle San Clemente Island to torment Phase III BUD/S classes have been strangely absent.

Colleen M. Farrelly

but the wind will come again…

…on altar walls blood-stained by stigmata on finger bones sticking out of grains on the wet scent of rosemary in an old man’s hand on palm fronds skinned for brooms

..on the sea scooped in a wife’s prayer seeking for a mask in blue whales supplications of dying roots the earth represses night eyes uncoiling vines on children’s cheeks

…in your hands a crosshatch of spider web sagged from the sun’s weight unrelenting darkness left for the lightning

on cracked cages the winded tongues unleashed

 

Alegria Imperial

I hate the clouding of my vision in my right eye, the inability to read properly, the constant feeling of eye-strain, the inability to judge height and depth which leads to me tripping over kerbs.

Strangely though as the date for my cataract operation draws nearer, I find myself savouring some of the cataract induced special effects.

rainbow aura
round the candle flame –
new visions

Juliet Wilson

Maria stands on the hill top, counting stars.

Maria fumbles with her wedding ring.

pushes back a curl.

thinks.

and, Maria goes back to the hill top counting stars.

horror movie…
mother mourns over
overcooked brinjal

Praniti Gulyani

I watched her working in her laboratory. My friend Sheila, the chemist.

She lifted a conical flask containing a colourless solvent and added a reddish brown amorphous substance to it. She placed the flask on the retort stand and lit the Bunsen burner underneath adjusting the flame just so. After a few minutes she dipped a thermometer into the solution to gauge its temperature. Satisfied, she measured a white crystalline compound on the balance and carefully added it to the flask. With a glass rod she stirred the solution till the colour was uniform. Finally she poured two test tubes of another white solvent into the bubbling solution on the burner. Having attained the desired consistency she poured the decanted solution from the conical flask into two beakers and turned to me.

“Care for a cup of Darjeeling tea?” she asked as she handed me a beaker.

waiting room—
the sugar baron complains
of diabetes

Gautam Nadkarni

Every Day …

… I’m a different person. Every day, I wake up in the body of a terrestrial. I’m myself, but at the same time I’m not. I pass from a man to a woman. At first, it was hard, but now I make myself more agreeable. Has been like this since analogue television was experiencing its maximum moment of activity. The radio signal was spreading freely in space at the speed of light and wasn’t absorbed by cosmic dust or clouds. It could be intercepted. My prime objective was studying Earth and collecting data to transmit to my home world. From the body I’ve access to a mind: most of the information I need are there waiting for me. I’ve made mistakes in the past, but now I’m being careful:

I can more easily mask my surprise and ask fewer questions;

I complain about the boredom of daily routine;

I laugh at bad jokes too, only because I’ll never be able to understand Earth’s sense of humor;

I pay attention at allergies;

I don’t dance in syncopation movement any more;

I certainly eat a lot more cereal now;

I’ve learned the plot of Romeo and Juliet.

But above all, I’m done looking for the truth about God, but I realized that if God spared Keith Richards it’s because he’s probably also a fan of Rolling Stones.

how strange:
every year Miss Universe
an Earth woman

 Antonietta Losito

 

When Glibb X came across a cloud of smoke appearing out of nowhere and decided to step into it for a lark he little knew he was stepping into a time warp. That’s the fancy word they use for a crack in space-time.

Suddenly Glibb found himself falling with a thud to the bottom of a molehill. When he looked up he knew there was something different in his surroundings. And that’s putting it mildly. Because the concrete metropolis around him had been replaced by a prehistoric setting. And he knew about prehistoric settings. He had seen ‘em all in Hollywood blockbusters.

Even as he looked up a couple of Neanderthals wielding clubs turned the corner. One of them spotting him shrieked in horror and almost fainted. Then he collected himself.

“Do you see what I see?” he asked his equally flabbergasted companion. The companion could only say weakly, “Gee, I dunno…”

This interested Glibb immensely.

“Do you fellows actually speak English? The Queen’s own English?” he asked the Neanderthals.

“Listen, wise guy,” said the taller of the two cavemen. “Kindly desist…refrain from making racist cracks.”

Glibb blushed at the compliment and said, “I’m from millions of years in the future. We didn’t know you chaps were so advanced as to speak English.”

This had the cavemen slapping their thighs and guffawing.

Then the shorter man said, “But seriously, we two are school dropouts. The dudes with the degrees speak a more advanced language.”

And they were still laughing when they disappeared in a puff of smoke.

mementos…
my time machine too small
for a Brontosaurus

 

Gautam Nadkarni