The Old Blog in the Desert

I have long held that a quiet evening is the safest place a man can be, which is precisely why I avoid them. Trouble prefers a man at rest, and it found me just as I was minding my own business, doing nothing of consequence and doing it well.

The incident began with a bite, sharp, sudden, and delivered to my left thigh with the sort of confidence usually reserved for tax collectors. I slapped at the offender and discovered it to be a bat, which I did not appreciate, as I had made no prior appointment.

Now, a reasonable bat would apologize and depart. This one, however, had ambition. No sooner had I felt the sting than it flew up, hovered a moment like it was considering its options, and then, without so much as a warning or a proper introduction, transformed into a woman.

And not just any woman, but a striking one. The sort that would cause a man to reconsider his opinions on bats, bites, and possibly even trousers.

She informed me her name was Rose. She spoke with confidence, as though biting strangers was merely her way of opening a conversation.

Before I could object or check the condition of my blue jeans, she went on to explain that we might enjoy a long future together. She said it the way a banker discusses interest, and was only awaiting my inconvenience.

Now, I’d like to say I handled this with courage and dignity. In truth, I nodded, which has been my chief survival strategy in confusing situations.

But just as I began to suspect I was getting courted under pretenses, she turned back into a bat.

Now, I am not a man who panics easily, but I do take a dim view of romantic prospects who can become airborne without notice. So I did what any sensible individual would do when faced with a suitor of uncertain species: I fetched the bell jar that covers a human skull I’ve named Edie, and dropped it over the unsuspecting lass.

It was not difficult. Rose seemed surprised by it, which I consider poor planning on her part.

And so here we are. Rose is under the bell jar, fluttering about and regarding me with what I can only describe as injured expectations. I, on the other hand, sit at a cautious distance, weighing my options like a man who has accidentally accepted a proposal he does not fully understand.

For if I release her, she may resume her argument for our shared future, or worse, and I have never been comfortable committing to anything that begins with a bite. But if I keep her confined, I must admit I possess a lady in a bell jar, which is not a situation that improves with explanation.

I have considered negotiating terms, but it is difficult to bargain with a creature that can be both a woman and a bat, depending on her mood and the lighting. So I remain undecided.

The jar sits on the table. The bat, Rose, as she insists, waits, growing more and more angry with me as the minutes tick by and I ignore her freedom. And I, having done nothing to deserve any of this, am left to conclude that this peaceful evening is not only unlikely, but downright dangerous.

And there she sits.

So, how did I come up with the premise for the story, “Bat in the Bell Jar”? Since you insist, hear me out.

It all started in the most humdrum of circumstances: trimming roses. Now, trimming roses, I have discovered, is a sport designed to humble the ambitious and draw blood from the careless.

As I sawed through a particularly obstinate branch, it fell on my leg like a treacherous little spear, piercing my thigh with the precision of a man with a grudge against humanity. Blood ran down, staining my sweatpants, and I swear the roses themselves shivered with satisfaction.

Later, lying in bed and reflecting on the day’s indignities, my mind, ever the troublemaker, decided that a simple branch-induced wound was far too mundane. No, it required a grander, more terrifying explanation.

“A vampire bat,” I thought, “the sort that drains cattle in the remotest jungles of Central America. Surely one of those must have mistaken me for dinner.”

From there, reason gave way to fancy. That bat, having apparently read every romance and horror story ever written, transformed into a whisp of smoke and then, in full melodrama, into a Vampiress named Rose. She was beautiful, she was terrifying, and she had a particular interest in me, which I can only describe as an exaggeration of the highest order.

Being a cautious sort, I trapped her in a bell jar, because every man who finds himself in such a situation knows that, when confronted with potential death by seductive bloodsucker, the sensible move is always to act like a fool. Then I worried myself sick over questions of etiquette: how, pray tell, does a man explain to a lady trapped under glass why he did what he did? And if she should escape, how does one dodge the ire of a female vampire with all the politeness he can muster?

And that, my friends, is the mundane origin of a story called Bat in the Bell Jar. The roses did their part, the thorns did theirs, and my imagination did what it always does: turn a small accident into a minor epic of terror, desire, and poor judgment.

So if you do not hear from me again, know this: either I have been drained dry, or I am living high on the hoof of a cow, in some remote corner of the imagination where common sense does not dare follow.