Life's A Beach

The Play Ground

(A short story I wrote several years ago about two little spooks. I like it at Halloween!)

Severin pushed the lid open, his shutter-like eyes blinking and widening to adjust to his awakening. He stood up and stretched his thin lithe body stiff now from sleep and confinement. Bending under the small opening, he left the old marble crypt, stopping to run his fingers over the Poyouria family name above the door. He moved off toward the old playground, located in what was once Congo Square, now Louis Armstrong Park. The park was closed and locked, but it did not matter to him. He was drawn there, to the place of his death, by some deep need, some part that was lost to him. There was no victim for him there, no one to be drawn to him by his innocence, and fall prey to his deadly deceptive power and used to sustain his existence. All of the children had gone home hours ago as he once had, fleeing the darkness, the predators that roamed the street in need of a child for their perversion; home to mothers, to supper, to homework, to safety. Only once had he stayed too long in the darkness under the huge golden moon that hung over the city; stayed too long for one last fling on the swings before heading home. But he wasn’t alone the night, had never reached home and when he left the playground he was forever altered by his encounter with the vampire who found him. His parents believed him abducted or that he had run away, not that he could have become a creature that they did not believe existed. Now the darkness that he had always fled was his only friend, his constant companion and his nurturing mother. He strolled through the entry and past the rustling palm trees. He saw the jungle gym, the monkey bars, the merry-go-round, the old swings, hanging crooked and rusted in the dim light from the street that filtered through the banana trees. The trees concealed the tall iron bars of the fence and dappled the light from the streets. He moved to the swings and sat down in one pushing with his feet, unthinking, feeling his deadness with no fear, no desire, no hope only hunger and what? A touch of sadness or was it madness? But he wasn’t suppose to feel. Only exist in this twisted death. Dead and yet not? He didn’t fully understand it, but did not question it. Swinging slowly, dust drifted up and settled on his pants legs as his feet moved through the sandy soil. His anger at his creator, his murderer had at first frightened him. As had the feeling of desolation, of feeling disembodied and his predatory need. He had learned to accept the resentment of being semi- present. His eyes wandered up into the thick leaves of the ancient oaks above him. The other boy sat on the top of the old tree house, so still that Severin had not seen him at first. His little face glowed in the darkness, alabaster, gaunt and smiling at him; both with his wide blue eyes and his thin lips. The boy climbed down as agile a park squirrel and faced him. He was alive, warm, breathing, trusting, gentle and friendly; perhaps a lonely homeless street child. “Come and play with me,” the boy said. Severin followed, his dead heart now filled with longing. Chain creaking, arms and legs pumping, they swung, higher and higher, up near the stars. They climbed the domed jungle gym and hung suspended on the bars, hands gripping, legs walking the air, twisting, turning, running. He watched the boys’ fair hair bounce as he hung suspended by his knees, his thin stick-like arms dangling towards the ground. Then on to the merry-go-round, pushing faster and faster until their breath burned in their chests. The pull of centrifugal force tightened the skin across the bones in his face as moonlight and shadows blurred past with their speed. It slowed, drifted, and stopped. They walked toward a bench to rest and it rose in him. The need, the hunger, the yearning, strong and ready; his faced twisted in cruelty, he grasp the tender flesh with his fingers. Severin turned the boy toward him, his dark eyes glowing, his face hungry and his spirit mean. Under the wash worn shirt he felt the wings. They were nestled under the dark skin, buried beside the skinny shoulder blades. Dormant. He felt the silkiness and then the power of muscles as they lifted the shirt, opened and were unfurled. They opened wide, amber colored, shimmering, gossamer and soft but with tendons beneath them, controlling them. The boys heart-shaped face was bleached and startled, his body poised and read to escape, to soar, to leave him there. Leave him alone in the darkened haunted playground. Wide, unblinking blue eyes held his green orbs. He was spellbound, transfixed, not frightened except for his potential loss of a victim to feed upon. The wings moved and his hand slipped from the boys shoulder as he rose, hovering above Severin, looking down at him with uncertainty. “What are you? A ghost? An angel?” Severin whispered reeling back in astonishment. “Dead, the same as you. Had I blood I would offer it to you. But there is none, nor any heartbeat. I am lonely, as are you. There are not so many of us here. Not your kind, nor mine.” The wings moved behind the boy, stirring the vampire’s raven hair, and they slowly lowered him until his toes softly touched the ground. They folded and returned to the hidden pockets in his hollow shoulder blades, the skin closed over them and his old shirt covered his back. He stared at Severin and Severins’ body stiffened in apprehension. “Don’t you fear me?” Severin asked. The boy shook his head and then he laughed and reached out and took Severins’ cold hand into his. “Friends?” the boy asked. The vampire nodded. “Race ya!” the other boy suddenly challenged. Severin hesitated only a moment before darting after him. They raced off across the playground, yelling, pushing, tripping, their legs pistoning wildly. Their voices rose shrilly, eagerly, almost joyfully, spiraling upwards past the dust rising under their feet and into the dark leaves. A policeman on the street outside the fence stopped and tilted his head toward the park. He stood very still waiting and listening. For a second he thought he had heard the sounds of children playing inside the darkened park. But he shook his head. It was only the sounds of the wind in the banana trees, or the sounds of traffic on North Rampart Street. He walked on down the block.