Vampires Never Get Old - Zoraida Cordova Page 0,72

again.

I’m free.

CanIScream: Wow. Is this really over?

FireOfTheSea: What a story. Does anyone else think vampires are really real after reading this?

TrueAnneRiceFan: Fake. Entertaining, but … there’s no way this is real.

NoOneKissesLikeGaston: Come back. Please! I can’t go without my updates. Please come back, Cisco.

5,125 Notes

REFLECTIONS Or But First, Let Me Take a Selfie

Zoraida Córdova & Natalie C. Parker

Mirrors are surrounded by superstition and lore. Narcissus loved his reflection so much he drowned in it. In many cultural traditions around the world, all mirrors and reflective surfaces are covered while a family mourns a death. Breaking a mirror supposedly comes with seven years of bad luck. Even the Evil Queen believes she can bewitch the truth from a mirror. And one of the oldest myths about vampires is that they cast no reflection at all. The root of this myth is exactly what Cisco discovers in this story: Most old mirrors were backed with silver, which, in some traditions, can harm or even kill a vampire. Thus, no reflections! This is such a well-known piece of mythology that it shows up again and again in contemporary stories about vampires, but the reasons evolve along with the tales. Another kind of reflection is how we see ourselves in stories, and who gets to see their lives and experiences reflected. Mark blends vampire lore with this question of who gets to have a reflection at all. Do vampires really cast no reflection, or is that merely the story Cisco’s been told? The title of this piece is inspired by Dr. Rudine Sims Bishop’s writing about children’s literature.

In what ways do vampire stories reflect your life and experiences?

THE HOUSE OF BLACK SAPPHIRES

Dhonielle Clayton

They said the Turner women of the House of Black Sapphires were a little strange. That they were just too beautiful. That they were up to no good.

They said the Turner women were vampires.

And whenever that word appeared, it was time to go. The Turner firebird would start the mourning song from its window perch; it knew when too many were watching, whispering, and surveying the beautiful Black women who floated in and out of the peculiar apothecary-turned-house. Their ever-moving coffin of sorts.

Bea hated the word vampire, and whenever they arrived in a new city—just like now—she braced for it, for all the other immortal folks to lump them together when they were decidedly not the same.

Her entire family and their thirteen trunks clogged the mahogany seats of a New Orleans streetcar. Mama had said they were headed to the Eternal Ward, one of five versions of the city run exclusively by those like them. That this was home. One Bea had never seen before. One Mama wasn’t sure she ever wanted to see again.

But as Bea looked around at all the humans scrambling about, she thought everything seemed normal here. The perfume of the mortals’ sweaty skin and the sound of their beating hearts made Bea’s serrated tongue flare; she was eager to feed after such a long journey. As they snaked down Canal Street, a sticky breeze clung to her, and she couldn’t fathom that they were headed to a beautiful, stilted version of this place.

Bea’s five sisters excitedly pointed out everything. Her oldest sister, Cookie, complained about how sloppy and unrefined everyone dressed. Sora wanted to wander into every perfume shop in the French Quarter, while Annie Ruth was on a hunt for the best bookstore. May talked about how she could put her paint set to work with all the colorful buildings and iron-lace galleries and balconies, and little Baby Bird’s mind couldn’t keep up with her tongue as she commented on every strange thing she spotted. But Bea was sad about leaving Charleston, South Carolina, behind. She’d grown fond of the sweet town, with its cobblestone streets and weeping trees and sweetgrass baskets, and kissing Reginald Washington hadn’t been too bad, because his mouth always tasted like the peaches from the tree in his mother’s yard. Her room there had had its own claw-foot bathtub, which never stained, even after so many blood baths. It had overlooked the Old Bethel Church. Who knows what she’d see outside the window in this next home. If it would be just as lovely. They’d been in Charleston for a good little while, almost fooling Bea into thinking the bird, their Honey, might not sing again and they’d stay put.

Maybe this time she’d find an eternal love.

She and her sisters used to make wagers about what city might be next and