Wednesday, July 29, 2015

Go see The First JET Kindle Novella by Andrew Harding... Violence is cathartic.. 7/30/15

Straight out of London come tales of unimaginable crimes and the preternaturally tinged detectives who solve them. 

Well over one million people get lost in this world on a regular basis via the popular HYBRID SERIES...

Meet operatives accidentally, or maybe even purposely 'enhanced' by the blood of night fiends.... But only enhanced, for they retain their fundamental humanity.

And now they hook up with covert operatives controlled by The Pentagon. MI5 comes stateside and mates with the CIA.

They're after big fish now (not that they haven't been before)...maybe real big fish... SHARKS... TERRORISTS... modern day brutal pirates out to mutilate society and destroy our world.

Have a taste. Take a bite. Click on CATHARTIC INTRIGUE ...and get to know JET...

Sort of like JAMES BOND and JANE BOND on steroids....

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Now dive in...

Monday, July 27, 2015

Introducing The HOMICIDE WANDERERS ... 7/27/15

Ca-Ca's mother sat in a big, old, ripped, vinyl reclining chair.... I think King Tut used it for a throne. The brown, burlap seat must of had like thirty five thousand farts in it... dog piss too, probably Ca-Ca's mother's piss too. She watch the same free TV shows every day.... Rachel Ray, The View, the local news, Meredith Viera. Steve Harvey and Ellen... No wait, she didn't watch The View. She watched The Price Is Right. She wants to spin the wheel. She wants to win a brand new, fully equipped Ford Focus. But she never will, 'cause they won't let her wheel that putrid reclining chair up on stage.

Ca-Ca buys her corned beef sandwiches from Arby's... good ones... big ones with extra meat. She used to buy her ham sandwiches. But then she learned one of the reasons pork's not kosher is because it looks and tastes exactly like human flesh. Although I don't know where you're supposed to go for Barbecued Honey Lady Ass. I asked the delicatessen guy at ShopRite once. He told me to drop dead and go to hell. Then he sold me a half pound of American cheese. I keyed his car in the parking lot. Saw him go in to work once. That's how I know. 

My name is Shit Head. But that's just a nickname. My real name is Timothy. Once me and Lester Watson lit a little hibachi out back of his house. It was the black, wrought iron kind they give you for sitting through a ninety minute 'buy this God damned, fucking time-share, you cheap, ugly bastid' speech. Lester's mother thought she was gonna get a mink jacket. But when she asked the guy, he lungered right in her face. I think she tasted a little bit of it. The boss came over and gave her two hibachis to make up for it and a midget salami for each one, to like slice up and barbecue. We used the second one. Lester had an aquarium with little newts or salamanders or whatever it is they called themselves, in it. Half a them were dead in the stinkin' green water anyway. But half were still living. Those are the ones we killed. Poked 'em right in through the heavy grate. Used chopsticks, 'cause it was a hibachi and all. They held on with their wet, little arms, but eventually we got 'em in. Coals were real hot too, all white and powdery. They curled up and bounced... the salamanders, I mean. Smelled like shrimp. Skin split. Steam came out. They looked crispy, but we didn't eat 'em, 'cause Lester said they were related to frogs and once at the all you can eat imitation Chinese buffet he ate a frog's leg and threw up on Mrs. Tuffinetti. She died two days later. He was positive the vomit did it. But I think it was because she got hit by a bus. Eleven days later Lester got hit by a bus too... not 'hit' actually... run over... His head went POP. First there was a sharp CRACK, then a pop. Pigeons swarmed in to eat his brains.

That's when I got real friendly with Ca-Ca. He was her brother. We were like ten years old. I was closer to nine. She was closer to eleven and she missed her brother real bad. Said we had to kill that bus driver and kids could do it, 'cause who's watchin' kids? So we sat on a bench at the place where the bus turns around at the end of the route and we waited. Two ladies even smiled at us. We smiled back, 'cause like you gotta be friendly.

Friendly people got all kinds a weapons. Hell, kids got weapons right in their book bags... 

Come back tomorrow and I'll tell you. Shit, your kids prob'ly got 'em too...


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Thursday, July 23, 2015


Greco-Roman culture extended up along the north shore of the Euxine Sea, though Roman sovereignty was iffy at best. Local kings enjoyed quite a bit of leeway. Although ostensibly clients of the emperor, they worked their own rackets too. One such king was Heracles the Fifth, who ruled a small but wealthy holding just to the right of the Crimea from his snug, little capital of Pariakis. Another Siracuse it was, with all the pleasures of major Hellenistic centers, though distilled to smaller size. It had marble. It had granite... a jewel-box of an amphitheater and a slave market featuring Scythians, Radiant Alans, Circassians and all the other exotic breeds found throughout the Cimmerian world. The palace, a half scale Tivoli, though due to the opulence of the place, few noticed it's diminutive nature, was a bad boy's playland. And Heracles the Fifth was a very bad boy indeed. He had two wives, Calpurnia and MuccaFea. The former engaged in a notorious affair with her wild, centaur stable boy and the later given to staging vivid tableau vivants. The only problem was some of the slave 'actors' could not assume the necessary poses and had to be killed and cracked into position, thus negating the 'vivant' part. But you can't have everything.

The king played with slaves too. Used them for fish food... hag fish and lampreys to be precise.  Had a big, cement pond, down in a dim, artificial grotto. Candles in cylindrical, blue glass 'vases,' I guess they were, threw a weak, watery light across the faux cavern walls of an already damp, chilly space. 

Next there was the water, usually placid til they threw something in. Then it roiled with the slick, snotty, oozing bodies of primitive, snake, eel, headless fish wannabes. Like wriggling, manically mobile intestinal tracts with round, sucking, tooth-filled 'mouths' at one end.

The king, Heracles the Fifth, saved the show for special guests and sometimes those he sought to intimidate. They'd come down after dinner, an obscene event in its own right. Torch bearing slaves led the way, followed by scent girls swinging silver filigree balls filled with perfumed wax. Not being 'normal' free people, they had no dignity or modesty and were kept bare, though in quite prime condition. 

Each guest had a small dish of raw, cut up fish. They'd laugh, toss some in and watch the loathsome, basically headless monsters go wild. Then the king would say - Care to raise the stakes a bit?..... Well born ladies giggled with delight, as their husbands and papas guffawed the way complacent big shots always do..... He'd wait a few heartbeats, the king, I mean, using the time to carefully appraise his 'stock.' Then he'd lift his hand and point a carefully manicured finger right at the victim. You. - he'd say. Go have a bath. Shoo shoo shoo, jump in.... This time the 'bather' was a scent girl. She blanched, moved not a muscle and stood there..... The king, in a low threatening voice said - The alternative is 'the griddle.'..... The pathetic girl nodded and stepped toward the edge. The king said - Any  of your kinsmen bound here will be set free. Now jump before I stick a knife up your ass!.. His dinner companions loved the tension and drama almost as much as the hellish scene to come.... And she did it. She jumped. A few of the matrons actually squealed with glee.  At first she tried to paddle about. Then she gave out with a tiny 'yip,' as the first hungry 'worm' grabbed hold, signaling the rest. ... One to the neck... One took an eye... Three to the buttocks, as she shrieked and rolled on an angry bed of flesh eaters..... The noble-folk  watched in silence.... When it was over and her shredded, skeletal carcass sank to the bottom, a glossy, well fed gentleman said - Remarkable, Majesty. Simply remarkable....His ruler moved closer, put his arm on the man's shoulder, grinned and said - Enjoyed that, did you?.... The man nodded appreciatively. Then while his head still bobbed, the king said - Have a closer look... and pushed him in... No one made a move, or said a word, including the man's daughter, lest they join him... The fish ate very well that night, very well indeed....

And for months to come, the king and his royal family savored their exotic treats. Hag fish and lampreys have a sweet, smooth silky taste. But a slave snuck down to the underground pond one night... a yet to be freed kinsman of that unfortunate scent girl, her brother, I think... He tossed bits of fish to the 'murderers' and watched as they ate. But his gift was infected with parasites, sea-worms of a most lethal and infectious sort. Three weeks later the first little royal bastard died. They thought it was cholera, but it wasn't. Worms like human flesh too. By the time of the summer solstice it was over. Heracles the Fifth and all his closest kith and kin were gone. Rome sent another to fill his throne. For legitimacy's sake they called him Heracles the Sixth... and he was even worse.

Now there were no vampires, or other night crawlers in tonight's tale. And I'm just a disembodied spirit you haven't met yet. But I know a bit about what transpired back then, for I swam with the hag fish and lampreys too.

Good night.


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Monday, July 20, 2015


Some people mistake us for graveyard ghosts. We are not ethereal, but we do frequent cemeteries and given that we have the power of flight, it's easy to understand. It wasn't always like this. Large cemeteries have only been around since the mid nineteenth century. In Philadelphia, that means Laurel Hill, an enchanted, bucolic, thickly wooded, death-land, strewn with poignantly eerie statuary depicting weeping angels and pensive cherubs. I like it there. The caretakers' wives look out for us. One, in particular, used to knit us sweaters, hats, gloves and other winter fare. Not just us. The cherubs too. I don't think I should talk about them. We used to talk about them around here all the time... pudgy, adorable, baby 'vampires.' But they're such innocent creatures. They gurgle, clap, laugh and hug each other. One of the caretakers leaves the heavy, bronze door to a never used mausoleum open just before dawn. Filled it with piles of quilts and baby toys too. They have these little, stuffed glow worm things. The faces light up when you squeeze them. That's how they see, the cherubs, I mean. The small windows up by the eaves are blocked out with dark green paint, but every once in a while a barely perceptible, faint green 'sheen' leaks out. Sometimes the caretakers' wives but them l.e.d. flamless candles. You can get really nice ones at Target for six dollars and up. They have a little tv in there that gets 'stolen' cable, mostly SPROUT and the elferina girls make a big fuss over them. You'd think, after years and years, they's acquire something like an adult personality. Yet they don't. Innocent babies forever... That's what they are.... Cherubs in every sense of the word.

Elferinos and elferinas stay childlike too. Yes, death happens. You know that. We've talked about it before. But some people need to die, or at least be sequestered from those who don't. 

We appear by bedsteads, usually between the hours of one to four in the morning.  They see a wann little sad faced spirit in the dark, if they can see us at all. To some we're merely shadow people. A few whisper old French or Flemish hymns... The elferino folk, I mean. Some hover up by the ceiling. Quite an eerie sight in the dark... You know how it is at that time of night. Maybe the moon sneaks in through a gap in the draperies, or ambient, outdoor illumination bounces off the clouds giving everything a weak, shadowy wash.... nightmare time.

Some gasp, or make moaning sounds. Some beg and cry.  We move closer, to the head, I mean and bend down low. They freeze, just like prey when resistance is futile. And then we bite them. It's a relatively easy death... a soft suffocation. Loss of blood means loss of oxygen. The body doesn't dry out. There are other fluids, lymph and such, but they're not blood... and we all need that. Still a rather terrifying death. The body goes numb. Some are still alive as their toes ignite with a 'cool' blue flame. If two share a bed and we kill one first, the temporary 'survivor' lies there next to an oddly burning corpse. Yet the flames never harm them. At times they whisper - Please, what are you going to do to me?..... We never respond. Sometimes I'll stroke their hair and go - Shhh..shhh.. shhh... Then, when they 're quiet, I kill them.... But please know these are dry, self-proud miserable souls who deserve to die. We can sniff them out.... Good sniffers. We got good sniffers, just like bloodhounds ... And we don't do it often, but we do it...

Then we retreat to our dark, mossy necropolis and dance like elves. One of the caretakers plays a concertina. His wife sings old Basque folk songs.

And thus we pass the nights. 

I am the elferino, Albion and I whole heartedly approve of this ongoing, nocturnal communication.

( the keyboard cools and he is gone...)


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Wednesday, July 15, 2015

Disney's "Pinocchio" - When You Wish Upon a Star <~~~ Our Vampire, Jonathon's Take On This .. 7/15/15

Don't be afraid to feel things. I see the public entertainments... the movies and joke tellers and television shows.  Your's is an era of latex suits and cruel, heartless jokes. Slap the other guy down before he slaps you. They claim they're breaking barriers in an effort to get to the truth. But mostly they're just breaking barriers. But sometimes fences allow the grass to grow.

I am a vampire and yet I feel things very deeply. I'll sit and stare at a pot the small garden behind our Philadelphia town house for hours. Moonlight makes everything beautiful. I'll share stories with the elferinos and elferinas... beautiful tales about knights and their ladies in Old Al Andalus. Chivalry, you know, began in The Caliphate of Cordoba, among aristocratic Muslim and Hebrew families in your ninth century and from there spread to colder lands. I remember those times. Fountains sprayed rosewater against the dry, Iberian heat. Traveling bards sang songs in MosArabique, a mescla (mixture) of Arabic and early Spanish that grew and matured into the classical Lingua de Andalucia we have today. I still know those songs and play them on the oud. Regular visitors to this... whatever it is, know that.  Listen, when it comes to 'vampires' you ain't never had a friend like me.

I picked that song from Pinocchio because our Billy (Kravitz) likes it. It's special to him. Pinocchio was his first movie. He was eighteen months old. His mother had to flip the seat up and hold him on the edge so he could see. I like Pinocchio too. It resonates with night-folk... 'real' humans... almost real 'artificial' humans. Indeed, some narrow minded, self-limiting mortal beings call elferinos 'Pinocchios.' But the elf-folk don't mind. they barely even notice.... Why?... Because they feel things. They taste the world and the life they live and savor it.

I run through the night with them. How quick and silent we are. It's all here, in the blog, I mean... Not this episode, but somewhere. He types it all out. Billy, I mean. Sometimes he doesn't even know he's doing it. I send it through him. Night- Folk- Puppetry we call it.  Some are true masters. I'm only fair to middling. 

Thing is, Billy has other stories too... that Mars one... the crooked bingo hall... The Little Match Boy... Marianne In Britches.. It's not all 'us.' And he works so hard. And he wants it so bad. ... I know a lot of you work hard and want 'it' too. The only trouble is you can wish on a million stars. But unless one of those 'stars' actually looks at your stuff, likes it and talks it up, ain't nothing gonna happen.

Sure, you say - Screw them big names. Who needs them?.. Like that's gonna work... What's that AMY SHUMER  girl doing? I see her name all over. Maybe she'll say something? 

Listen, Jiminy Cricket's a good singer, but he knows nothing about realizing our dreams...

And night-folk have them too.

Help each other. Retweet each other. Talk each other up. And if you know any big names... you know... be subtle, but push a little.

Now let me go do something with the elferinos and elferinas.


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Tuesday, July 14, 2015

Korngold plays Kings Row (Main Title)... Our Admittedly Unique 'Vampire' Jonathon Waxes Sentimental ..7/13/15

I do not even know where I am. Deep woods. I see deep woods. The trees are majestic columns that kiss the stars. And I sit on a carpet of cool moss. My heart races and my face burns from the sublimation. There's friction when we pass through the ether. Every atomic particle leaves its mark. 

A visitor came to see me... a friend from the early days. Edmund of Colechester, he was called and a 'vampire' as am I. I knew him amd he was my friend. We had so much in common...He, the indulged, though unacknowledged son of a bishop and I the spoiled scion of a Sephardic, Granadan aristocrat. Innocents of 'the night' we were, snatched from mortality by cold, hard hands. I met him in an inn along some pilgrimage trail soon after my transformation. He was new to the night too. We sat in a corner by the hearth, trying to be invisible. How scared he was... a russet haired 'vampire' in a monk's robe. And the cloth reeked from scent. New 'night-folk' often do that in an effort to obfuscate the supposed 'vampire' stench. But the truth is we don't smell. Maybe noxious vampires who frequent graveyards and live as ghouls acquire a disgusting bouquet of sorts, but higher types do not. Edmund did not know that.

I said a few words in Vahmperigo, my Mediterranean Vampire dialect. And then, seeing as he was English, added some in Vahmpergahn, the tongue of Northern Night-Folk. He feigned ignorance, but he knew. I could tell he knew.

Then I smiled, so that he could see my teeth, my fangs. Night-folk can do that discretely... a fast glimpse and that's it. He saw. I leveled my eyes right at him and nodded. He did the same. We couldn't drink the grog. They had ale and dark beers and mead. Distilled spirits were rare. Arab lands had them, but not Europe. There was wine. They had that. But wine was a woman's drink. Men might have some with a meal and we weren't eating. I tipped my head toward the door and got up. Edmund followed me . We left the hot smoky white washed room and stepped out onto a twisting, muddy 'lane.' Oh, one other thing. Please don't think the smoke came from tobacco. That was still a MesoAmerican affectation, four hundred years away from our world.

Everyone had cloaks. Everyone had hoods and they used them. People abroad after dark stayed hidden. We did too. Those with means traveled in snug, sedan chairs borne by strapping henchmen. Torch bearers led the way. Scared, nervous lantern boys came up the rear. Many killed simply for sport. You can't imagine how dark it was. Public illumination did not exist. People slept at night. That was it. Cats snarled. Rats scurried. Dogs growled. Various types of insects feasted. Life, for all save the most vicious, amoral, violent ant brutal ...and I'm talking about the warlord aristocracy... was crap. Maybe some monks and nuns escaped it and, oddly enough, Jews, forced into flood prone ghettos, due to their scrupulous food and bathing laws, escaped some of it too. But for the rest, the only escape was sex, or hut brewed intoxicants. Life meant nothing.

Excuse my digression. But Edmund left us tonight. He diffused, sublimating out in all directions til there was nothing discernable left. Night-folk do that sometimes. I don't know if their soul stays with the nebulous particles, or passes on into THE WORLD TO COME.

Just know that we became friends on that long ago night. I had someone to talk to... my first night-folk companion. This was after perhaps a century or more of solitary wandering. Oh, I had conversations...midnight visitations with learned clerics .... privy talks with busy rulers.... dream time with poor, hopeless children. Most all children were poor and hopeless then. Talent meant nothing, except maybe talent for killing. Boys so blessed might become knights.... Blood was everything... and not just blood... 'legitimate' blood.

I told Edmund tales of Old El Andalus and he schooled me in the creation of illuminated texts... Not texts as you know them. Back then, they were books. That's how I learned how to illustrate my Journal. You've heard us reference that. Oh, I knew the necessary calligraphy from my mortal school days, beit safer (book house, school) and all. We started publicly funded education at three. But living imagery, other than plants was denied us. Not in antiquity and not in all places, though then, in Spain, it was.

Did we hunt together?... Never... That's not what we shared and I want him back. 

A 'vampire' went into the dark tonight... or the light... depending how it plays out...and I will say prayers for him.

The nights are already longer... Not by much... perhaps ten to twenty minutes, depending on the clarity of the sundown sky. But it's a start and I am glad. 

'Noble' vampires live as kings, or ay least have the potential to do so. And I've known many over the centuries... a heavy hearted array, all lined up in a dim silent row.

Edmund... he was the first...


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Wednesday, July 8, 2015


Albion exposes us to spiritual entities~~~

Albion whispers. He says - Some are vain about their lost physical forms. They always manifest as they looked in life. Others no longer care, or even remember such things. But they still think and their thoughts condense into visions. The Midnight Zepher is one of those. I don't know if he still has a name. I call him that..... 

Then he thinks for a few heartbeats and says - Look how you're here, but you're not. Yet you know my words and even something about my feelings. I can feel you. Not as individuals, but as a spiritual mass, an aura, a blanket. Maybe we all play 'the ghost' at times?

We're in the loggia of some Parkway museum. The heavy, bronze lanterns hanging from the ceiling (what else would you call it?) are turned down low... not really dark, but dim and shadowy. A few homeless guys curl up under their summer blankets (seasonal change is good, you know) ... They look like impressionistic sculptures. Albion sits there, pensively hugging his knees, a vaguely gallic, more or less pubescent boy, staring at the night.... Then a breeze kicks up.. not cool, warm and thick. The gallic, elferino boy flashes a wry smile. He knows. The ghost is here. Heat lightning radiates in the distance. Sleeping men slowly roll toward the shadows.... Shadows mean shelter... It's good to hide. But one man begins to mumble. He paws at his skin till it bleeds. Then he screams --- The bugs! The bugs! Oh, PLEASE, God, make them stop!! ... A neighbor growls - Yo, you bastid, this ain't GONE WITH THE WIND . Them 'animules' ain't killin' you ... But he stares wide eyed, as millions of nickel sized bed bugs swarm up from cracks in the sidewalk, stream under the blanket and torment the man . They even bite his eyes. He thrashes. He vomits. But they eat that too ,before streaming down his throat for more. He trembles. The blood dries up. He belches. It's over. All are as they were, physically, at least . The breeze moves on and dogs begin to howl. Albion looks into the camera (if we HAD a camera ) gets up and moves on. We 'hear' his voice. --- You've probably felt 'The Zepher' too....


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