Monday, January 31, 2011


There are certain things that you should know. Vampires, for the most part, have little knowledge of their true beginnings. Yes, there are old legends and stories, but they are only myths. And each vampiric culture has their own. Some believe the nocturnal nativity happened in Sumeria, back before the age of Gilgamesh. Others revere 'first ones' who ignited into the physical realm inorder to seal a pact between the Sun and the Moon. I could go on and on. But Papa knows best, for he is, if not the eldest, certainly close to it. Imagine, a being who has seen Neanderthals in the flesh. And yes, there were Neanderthal vampires too. Some of the old ones claim that isolated Neanderthal survivors are responsible for werewolf stories the world over. What does Papa believe? Actually, not much. He knows there were beings like himself, Cro-Magnon or 'modern' vampires at least twenty eight thousand years ago. That's when the last of the Neanderthals died out in some lonely caves, down by the sea, near The Pillars of Hercules. Well, the last truly 'human' Neanderthals, for a minute dusting of the vampiric sort managed to survive. Werewolves? Big-Foot? Anybody ever hear of The Boogie-Man?  Come on, you get the idea. What's it like for a man who has clear memories of mammoth hunts to make his way along the public thoroughfares of a contemporary city? What type of cunning must he possess? Who were his 'playmates' along the way? I can tell you that when I sublimate through Papa's mind, I feel vestiges of an old one, a special one, a feamale one, a soulmate. Her original name, I do not know. But in recent centuries she has answered to 'Renate '(Reh-Nah-Tay), a personal label often heard in Central Europe. She knows he is free now. Why she never came to his aid, I do not know. Perhaps she too was passing through a weakened period. Perhaps she did not care. He waits for her. Not so much waits, as anticipates their reunion. Oh, it will take place. That event will happen. Could be she's on her way........ But for now, he fills his time with the little girl, with Annie. Oh, how she loves to kill. Craves human lives like a toddler craves apple juice. And he makes sure that she gets them. Fresh ones. Fat ones. Terrified ones who squirm and thrash and scream (until they are gagged) and sweat. Nice ones. Bad ones. Old souls shuffling off for their almost hourly, nighttime, pee-pee visit. And teen-betweens insolently cracking their gum. They all think they're being taken over into some romantic land peopled by sharp toothed Abercrombie and Finch models (see, I keep up). But they soon learn differently when the 'light' goes out and they begin to burn. What else did I want to tell you?......Oh, yes. The 'other ones.' The elves, the cherubs and the lovely Sarah. What happened to them?  Let me see. I suppose you could think of it as being in Limbo, or maybe what the Buddists call The Bardo. Are they irrevocably gone? No, they can be brought back. Do I know the means? Well, it's complicated and right now it's not on the tip of my no longer existent tongue. But there is a way. Such a fate has befallen others. They are not the first. Indeed, some of the most artistic carvings and high-relief statues found in cathedrals and palaces throughout the centuries have suffered the like. Who knows, you may have seen them. Imagine what the world will be like when they wake up? Zebulon has enjoyed our little chat. But It must end now. For there are events unfolding in Fostat (what you call Cairo) on The River Nile, in the Land of Kemet (known to you as Egypt) which call to me, as I once spent time there, years back, as a youth.........

Sunday, January 30, 2011


Jonathon sat by the small sterno fire with the mole children. A few of the adults sat with them as well. He had been crying. He missed Sarah. He mourned for her and the others too. Were they gone? Were they gone for good. Who knew? He was in a tunnel far underground, one of the many built in the early days by an over ambitious subway system. It was semicompleted over one hundred years ago. Old tiled walls. Weak electric lights hanging in primative wire baskets. They never really put in the 'permanent' stuff, for work was called off when automobiles took over. Three subway lines proved enough. Now the weak illumination from the bulbs had burned out long, long ago. But the ancient wiring could still be made to leak out a spark or two of wattage. The mole people were adept at knotting up a bit of this and a bit of that, some copper wire, some, I don't know what you would call it (remember, Zebulon's soul stores the memories of many civilizations) and so they managed to milk a miniature ember-like glow out of the antique lines and into a collection of small bulbs scrounged from dollar stores and trash heaps. Water was slowly accumulated from forgotten, leaky pipes in venerable, old fire buckets originally used to hold sand back in the construction days. Mushrooms, pigeons and rats were raised for food. Life in the depths was possible. Some had never been to the surface in years. Some had never been there. Others went up occasionally to beg for coins or maybe pick a pocket or two, buy a delicacy in a bodega and scurry back down. You've seen them. They infest the shadowy places, seeming to overlap with the homeless (from whence they spring). But the mole people have somewhere to go. And with their purloined water, plus the dried cakes of soap found in abundance in a storage chamber meant to supply the partially finished restrooms, they manage to preserve a measure of cleanliness and dignity. Even the rats and fat, flightless pigeons are quite clean by now. Jonathon had sheltered with them before. Sarah too, if I am correct. He could, theoretically exist there indefinitely. But it was not his natural habitat. He needed the moonlight, the wind among the clouds and the stars to keep him company. True, his hosts kept him fed. They were adept at grabbing a deserving evil-doer or two , wrestling them back under the surface and serving them up to their guest. But it was not the existence for him. So he told the little ones stories, of Old Seville and England during the Restoration. And he taught them the true meaning of Ring Around The Rosy, a dancing game used by seventeenth century children to give them courage during the time of the Plague. And he cried. He cried for the plump, gurgling 'cherubs,' innocent too in their own way. And for the 'elves' and everyone else.....

Saturday, January 29, 2011


It is I, Zebulon. For the last few planetary rotaions I have been in Egypt, commenting on the unfolding events for readers of other dispatches. But for now, I am back. Let's see. Where are we? There can be no disagreement. Papa is now the center of things. And he's different. In his last local manifestaion, when he was still incarcerated, he came to us as The Shaky Hand Man. Then he sought to undermine society as a whole. He softly crooned into the ears of impressionable people, tempting them to change their ways and follow him into the shadows. Some did. And it was pleasureable for him. He did have Annie. She was already his. Yet he was still buried down far beyond the deepest foundations of Rome and that was torture. But now he is free, in the flesh as well as in the spirit. And he cares nothing for the morals of those around him, human or immortal. He craves killing and the many other beguiling sensations his human parts can feel. Look, now he is with that new, little vampirina (vahm-pah-ree-na). He loves her. At first I doubted it. But he loves her. They have a place, a nest, down in the cellars of The University Museum near the thirty fourth street from the river. Not a rough space. It is actually quite well finished. An office, I think it was and without windows....even better. If I am not mistaken, some of our local vampires slept there once before. Maybe that is how he sensed it. All he had to do was walk through the echoing halls near closing time. It's winter, so that would already be after dark. A dapper, handsome executive, with trimly styled, steel gray hair and the requisite well dressed, little girl. What guard could resist? Strike up a conversation. Sublimate through the man's mind a bit. Find a weakness and you're in. This one had an illness. I don't know. Some sort of human metabolic condition. It was serious. He was worried. That was it. Papa, ever attentive, danced him over into a corner, whispered in his ear and offered him a deal. The man would have health in return for his assistance. Simple and direct You may not know it, but even the breath of an immortal is intoxicating to humans.  That's how easy it is. They had a new familiar, a snug berth and some other ancillary stuff all in return for a few drops of blood. The man must have been a fan of gothic fiction, for he knew just how to draw it in. Annie smiled, as she reached up to his lips and wiped away an errant, glistening drop. Then she slurped it up like a hungry puppy. The three of them looked at each other and giggled. Soon they added another guard or two. Ah, security. A home at last. Each night, after slaughtering the necessary number of people, they'd return to the museum and explore. Annie liked the dim, still Egyptian halls the best. Papa taught her how to sublimate through the glass into the display chambers, where all the quality mummies were kept. They'd lean over the edge of some ancient sarcophagus, discussing the specimen within. Papa was somewhat surprised to discover that he actually recognised one of them, a finne, old gentleman from the time of the Ptolemeys. The mummy was only about twenty three centuries old. Not much by ancient Egyptian standards. Annie asked if they could use their blood to resurrect him. But Papa said that would not work, since they lacked the canopic jars containing his organs. And besides, the man's brains had been thoroughly liquified and discarded at the time of his mummification. Yet he did show her one thing. Papa bit into his lip, allowing a small tricle of blood to drip down onto the dead man's waxy, shrivled, dusty hand. Not much happened at first. But after a few heartbeats things began to change and a few thumb prints of flesh returned to a more or less living state. Annie was intrigued. Her eyes opened wide She sucked in some air and stared silently. Papa smiled down at her. Then she looked up into his eyes and giggled.........

Friday, January 28, 2011


Jonathon was all alone. The Pineys and Red Paints disappeared into the Jersey woods. wilkravitz went with them. But the honorable Andalusian could sense him and knew he wanted to come back to the city. He wanted to help. So did Edith. Yet this wan't the time. Papa was a new type of vampire, at least for Philadelphia. For the last three hundred years, local vampires had been moral, ' guardian angel ' type creatures. You remember - Cull the wicked. Help those meant to live.....The little blood gifts to sick people in hospitals and all that? Well, now it was different. Papa was a hedonist and a bitter, angry hedonist. Death (other people's) was a special treat to him. It tasted good. It made him powerful. It healed all wounds, especially the one cut into him by his thousand year imprisonment. Oh, do not think that secret forces sent out by that supposedly 'Vatican' faction weren't trying to recapture him. They were. But his current location was still a mystery to them, And so they busied themselves sneaking up on deluded, powerless Wiccans in such places as Brussels and Edinburgh. Maybe they would one day uncover his trail. And then again maybe not. The refuge in the park was soon abandoned. Papa lacked the cadre of loyal 'familiars' needed to keep it going. So he and little Annie were vagabonds of the night, just like everyone else. Oh, Baylah still had her snug berth with the human honey bunch. But she knew the score. She was smart. So she and that stock exchange fellow quickly shuffled off to cheerier climes at his beachfront house on the South Jersey shore. And the toffee beauty soon became quite the fixture at Texas Hold'em tables throughout Atlantic City. None guessed her secret, for she was discreet.......All had to live by their wits. Jonathon reconnected with the mole people. He liked their tunnels deep under the subways. He enjoyed playing little games with the wide-eyed mole children. And when he was depressed and unable to hunt, they always surprised  with a plump, juicy, human n'er-do-well or two..... One night, when he could not sense the presence of Papa in the vicinity, he snuck back to the redout in the park and sublimated in through a wall. But the interior was completely empty. Each and every immortal 'carving' had been carefully chipped from every surface. And the place had fallen back to its old use as a municipal, park service storage facility. Where had he taken Sarah? Where had he taken Jonathon's beloved? Where were the enchanted 'elves and cherubs'? He'd find out...some night, but not that night. And so he wandered through the city, a dark haired, Spanish princeling. His cunning, leather bootkins tapping out a rhythm and occasionally tossing sparks along the way.

Thursday, January 27, 2011


Jonathon awakened to find everyone gone. He raced into all the tiny, one time, storage rooms. They were all empty. He bounds up the stairs to the main room. All is quiet and bathed in moonlight falling in from the high, small windows. Even the Amish 'fireplace' is cold. Then his eyes are drawn to something new. He looks up to see the bleached, gray, contorted bodies of the elves and cherubs, crowded into the corners like so many ornate, plaster putti in an old Venitian palace. Sarah is there too and in the same condition. She occupies a spot above the sofa, like a goddess caught in flight, arrayed in a classic gown. He stands there transfixed. Then he hears a voice. It is Papa's voice. The newcomer steps into the moonlight and speaks - The others ran. The humans, I mean. Oh, their out there somewhere. Who cares? More for me to hunt.......... He gestures toward the gray, bleached, frozen figures on the wall......And them? I don't know how it happened. I don't. It appears I am not even aware of my own abilities.......... He grins and turns toward the cold, electronic hearth. Then he blows or exhales a bit of air toward it, causing it to instantly spark and 'crackle' to life............Papa looks up, studying the trapped and frozen immortals - I don't even know if they are truly gone, or if  they could be brought back, or what. I don't know. I just don't know. They made me angry......Annie drifts out of the shadows, dragging the corpse of a dead human. She goes to Papa and stands by his side. He softly carresses her face. She smiles........ Papa says - Like a lion on the grasslands of Africa, I have destroyed your offspring, true,you did not actually create all of them, but they were yours, inorder to make space for my own.........He  runs his fingers through Annie's hair.......Look at her. Look how eager she is. Killed it before she could take the blood. Now it's no good. It's ruined. It won't combust and disappear. But she'll learn. She'll learn.........Jonathon recognised the corpse as one of the park workers, a valued 'familiar'. The eyes were gouged out from the skull. The head grotesquely twisted on a savagely broken neck. Annie let go of the lower jaw (her handle) and allowed the body to smack down onto the floor. Then she just stood there and belched. Papa chuckled. He coldly stared at Jonathon and said - Put some clothes on and go bury him.......So Jonathon did, in a peaceful spot, kissed by moonlight, deep within the naked, winter trees. Annd he stood there thinking (and possibly praying) as the grave slowly vanished under a new, fresh, blanket of snow...............But Edith was wary. The Piney Woman was smart. Before she ran, she took the books. She has the journal and 'La Ciencia Vampirismo' too. But what would one as old as Papa need with information like that?.........

Tuesday, January 25, 2011


How did Papa get so strong? Remember, he has endured since the time brfore words, or at least written words. His history is history. And when he was sealed away, little more than one thousand years ago, he was passing through a weak period. That's the way it is with the life-eaters. Things tend to change. Strength ebbs and flows like the tides. Why once there was a life-eater known throughout the world during the melting time (right after the last ice age). According to oral traditions, he was able to encase enemies in  thought bubbles and transport them to many different places. Some were abandoned on barren, rocky shores. Others found themselves floundering in the middle of what would one day be called the Pacific Ocean. It's rumored that a few victims suffered the most hellish fate of all. They were transported to the corona of the sun and hovered there surrounded in a slowly erroding remnant of earthly atmosphere and temperature. Imagine the searing sights they saw. The churning plasma of the surface. Massive explosions vaster that ten thousand worlds. And a  white hot (though tinged with yellow) light knifing through everything. But then, as they'd  finally approached the surface, heaving up and down with swells that could lick the moon, it would be over. The surrounding earthly blanket would be gone. The heat beyond heat would  embalm them. For a moment or two they would feel it. They would see it. I know not if that outcome is natural to the physical world, or if that ancient, powerful one willed it so. But that is how they were destroyed....... Now we must consider.....Is Papa that strong? I do not know. The truth may lie within the akoshic records, but I am afraid to search such places. And all the others like me feel the same....Thus speaks Zebulon..............Papa brought Annie back just before the dawn. Everyone else was already snug in their appointed places. No one made a sound. We heard them park the car. We heard them come in. They tarried for a bit in the main room. He sat by the ersazt fireplace. She snuggled on his lap. And they purred just as lions purr, bathed in the dim, flickering, orange glow. I held Sarah and she held me, both in the physical and spiritual sense. Then we heard them descend the stairs and head toward their spot. All was silent. But they stopped outside the door to our chamber. I could feel it. I could see it in my soul. I could see their evil grins. In that instant it was as if the universe refrained from evolving. But then it was over. They passed by, entering their own dark, still cocoon. I could feel Sarah's heartbeat and she could feel mine. I could sense the racing heartbeats of the others, both mortal and immortal. Indeed, Edith suffered a tiny heart attack. I must remember to give her a blood kiss, if I ever get the chance for that again......

Monday, January 24, 2011


Jonathon and Sarah had much to do. They already arranged for Baylah to stay with her companion. It is  odd to think that she used to style herself a transvestite. Her bone structure really does not lend itself to that. But her vampire magic was such that she was believed. And it was a good disguise. People did sense a strange incongruity about her. Why not pin it on that? Some at her cocktail lounge still believe it. Others don't even care. She's also guarding some irreplaceable objects. Jonathon's journal is with her. So is the venerable and mysterious tome known as La Ciencia Vampirismo. This all had to be accomplished in great haist during those 'first night'  hours when Papa and his little 'daughter' went romping through the lives of unwitting Philadelphians.. The Red Paint  people, the two or three that were left, evaporated away and found shelter with others of their kind. The goth kids were also warned away. Three mortals were left, the Old Woman, Edith and wilkravitz. Edith stayed out of a sense of duty. She'd been helping the vampires with her telepathic skills for a while now and felt obligated to continue during this stressfull time. The Old Woman wasn't  about to go anywhere. She  resented Sarah's presence ever since Jonathon brought her into this . If Sarah disapproved (or was at least concerned about Annie) then the Old Woman loved the girl. And now that she  had become the daughter of one so strong as Papa, the Old Woman  was in  like Flynn. I know a lot of you think the proper expression is 'in like Flint,' but that came about during a 1960's campy spy movie. The true expression dates to the 1930's and '40's. It references the romantic exploits of an actor named Erroll Flynn, a dashing, transplanted Australian reputed to be extremely successfull with the ladies and with some who were not so lady-like as well. In fact, from certain angles, Papa rather resembles him. The sleeping arrangements downstairs were shuffled about a bit. Most of the elves and cherubs crowded into  two small chambers toward the back. Papa made them nervous. He reminded some of their own transformations. He represented violation and treachery and death.  Sarah thought of sending them to live with the mole people in their chambers and tunnels under the subway system. But Edith had an inkling. She knew that was not right. So the enchanted 'young ones' stayed where they were. wilkravitz had been transcribing their story for so long, they never thought of sending him anywhere. By now, he was part of it. And he had a way of staying quiet and fading into the background that made him almost unvisible. Papa had bigger fish to fry. wilkravitz would probably be all right. I hope. What can I tell you? You want to know something about the one we have come to call Papa. Where would I start? How could I stop? He is among the eldest of his kind. And they form a chain going back to a time before the coming of the Moon........

Sunday, January 23, 2011


They pulled into a multi-level  garage and jumped out. Papa was already adept at the valet parking thing. Soon they were down on the street and marching along. Annie liked the attention. She felt at home. He was The Shaky Hand Man made manifest, only he wasn't shaky and she liked his looks. How many six year olds get to go slaughtering with their daddy? Oh, look at the beautiful hotel! Let's go in, Papa. I bet there're loads of sweaty bitches and bastards that we could eat in there. So they did. He bought her a  stuffed animal in the gift shop, a cute, cuddly, fat, little bear. She named him Buddy. And thirty minutes later, they way-laid the seventyeight year old granny woman who sold it to them as she was leaving the premises. They shared her for dinner. Old people's blood (the life actually) is all right, but she craved something jazzier. He took her into a shuttered department store. It wsasn't necessary to sublimate. He had this thing with doors and locks. They just seemed to cooperate with him.  And after about three quarters of an hour she had a shopping bag filled with the latest in obnoxious kids' wear. The guard agreed that all the choices were first rate. But then again, what else could he say, being the reluctant guide to these demons and all? She did the rest by herself. She jumped up to 'kiss' him just before exiting, but ripped out his throat instead. His blood was a little better, somewhat thick with salami and cheap cold cuts, but satisfying just the same. Papa didn't want any. She offered, but he politely demured.  Sure, she felt a bit bad about the greasy mess on the floor and all. But Papa said that's what the cleaning staff is for. So they laughed and ran out onto the street. They spent the rest of the night frightening whores on Arch Street. Maybe they drained a little off one or two. I can't remember. A little later they threw blood balloons at taxi cabs parked along The Avenue of the Arts. They must have drained one or two. Yeah, the blood must have come from the whores. I hope it was clean. One cabbie jumped out to confront them. He started waving his finger and yelling in Urdu or Punjabi or something like that. Papa just went into his act. He stared deep into the cabbie's eyes and levitated eight inches up off the ground.  The man shit himself right then and there. He threw up a little bit too. This made Papa sad, for he recalled fine times spent with a certain nobleman at his palace on the Gangeatic Plain approximately two or three thousand years ago, so he gave the man eight or nine Benjamin Franklin portraits and flew away. Annie clapped her hands and skipped off to join him.  I don't know what the grandchild of the seventeight year old woman thought when their grandmother failed to meet them at the car for her ride home. I don't know what the poor, little wife of the guard thought. But these two were a new breed of vampire, at least for Philadelphia. And to my mind, things were bound to change....

Saturday, January 22, 2011


I do not enjoy relating these things to you, but I am a narrator and it is my duty to do so. This is not a choice Zebulon would make, but I must do it.....The Red Paint young man went down toward his doom. They did not hear much noise up above. It was all largely silent and clinical. Papa sat the youth down on a chair next to the bed. Annie wasn't sleeping. She was waiting, like a baby eaglet, ready to tear the vole apart. Papa kneeled down on the floor and whispered something into the young man's ear. I know what it was, yet such things are private. Perhaps if you encounter him in the world to come he will tell you? The human quietly nodded his head and waited. He cried a bit, maybe a tear or two. But not much. By this time Annie was quite aggitated. She clenched and unclenched her fists. She was trembling. Papa stroked the young man's cheek. Then he turned to his new born deathling and gestured for her to begin. She  shifted over a bit and put her skinny arms around his neck. He shuddered. She kissed him. But soon it was not a kiss. She had broken the skin, instinctively finding the right vessel. And then she began to feed. Cotton candy, chicken nuggets, Reeses Pieces? No, this was better. This was richer and deeper in an unescapable fundamental way. They were united. And they stayed that way till every drop of his blood and every bit of his life was drawn into her. She let him fall to the floor and sighed. Papa kicked away the quilts and blankets. They watched, as the empty human husk ignited into the eternal cold, blue flame and disappeared.  When it was over, she looked her 'father' in the eyes and giggled. Then she traced her finger through the remnant of grease on the floor, brought it to her nose and said yuck. Papa playfully mussed her hair. She impatiently sucked her teeth and smoothed it back. He helped her clean up in the little bathroom. She changed into a child's outfit made up of this and that pilfered from the wardrobes of Marianne and Celeste, the two elfin girls. Then she took his hand. They climbed up to the main floor, walked brazenly passed the others and out into the unsuspecting night. Everyone heard the quiet, heavy purr of the engine as they drove away. The Old Woman possitively trilled with delight, as she gathered up her tools and went downstairs to wash the mortal's remnants away. Sarah broke down and cried. Jonathon went over to comfort her. The other Red Paint people, maybe two or three, joined hands in prayer. Edith just sat there looking down at the table. wilkravitz closed his eyes, pretending to sleep. They were in shock and no one knew what to do. But after a few heartbeats, Jonathon took out his cell phone. He called Baylah and told her to stay away. And the ersatz fire, in the well made Amish mantle shed its comforting orange glow upon it all.

Friday, January 21, 2011


Papa took Annie into the thickest part of this urban woodland, to a place where even the stars looked new. He held  her and whispered of the life to come. She was still. Her eyes were opened, drinking in the silvery spangled darkness. Everything was apparent to her. Each sleeping squirrel burned bright. And he was not concerned for his costly attire, as they sat on a dias of cold, dead leaves and pine needles. Icy patches commandeered the forest floor, sharing it with a sugar spun frosting of snow. A greeting card to herald the birth of a new little deathling, a spiritually unencumbered like-eater. Now sometimes the shedding of the skin comes early and sometimes it happens later. Annie, possessing the body of a child, would shed fast. Tiny skin breaks were already starting to appear. She whimpered at the strangeness of it,but he held her close, whispering words of encouragement and security.It happened quickly. The sticky, mortal mask slid off. He removed her dress and dipped it in snow, then used it as a rag to wipe away the remnants. She shivered, still remembering the danger cold could pose. But that was just for mortals, not for her. He took off his suit coat and wrapped her in it. Then he picked her up and carried her back to the refuge. Wide eyed., woodland life forms (some known and some unknown) silently watched them pass........................................................... And those inside never moved. Each held their place, staring off into space, comtemplating what was to come. The heavy, metal door opened. Papa entered carrying his new, little , prize. He walked right passed them and went downstairs to the sleeping rooms in the cellar, where he placed her in a bed of quilts, tucked in all snug and tight. She slept. But it was a fitfull sleep, for the hunger was beginning to build. He went back upstairs, walked into the middle of the open space and looked around. They knew what he meant to do. The silence in that room was beyond silence  Papa studied them all, paying special attention to the mortals. He focused on Edith. Her shoulders slumped. But then he moved on, settling on one of the Red Paint People, a young man who sat motionlessly holding a book. Papa looked at him and said - You, come with me......... The young man did not move. Edith spoke. She said - No, take me........ Papa ignored her. The young man found his voice and quietly responded. He said - No, I will go. It's all right. I'll go. My conscience will live on......

Thursday, January 20, 2011


I could hear the elves and cherubs bouncing off the walls downstairs. They knew what was happening. They remembered their own transformations a universally painfull experience for each and every one of them. At the time, while it was unfolding, they were transfixed. But after it was over and there was no turning back things were different. That's when the cold sets in. That's when the hunger starts. Some of them tried to stay with their human families. They tried to sit in their old place. They tried to sleep in their old bed. But the vessel containing their old life was broken. Loved ones shrieked and ran away. Priests came bearing heavy, ornate, silver magician's tools. Prayers were screamed. Spells were cast. Doors were slammed. And they were least to that world. Yet if they had the good fortune to avoid the vampire catchers, especially the vile breed specializing in children, a new existence opened up to them. They'd make common cause with others of their breed, infesting the dark, forgotten crannies of the world. A ruined charnel house, a damp, stone, oozing crypt. What did it  matter? Just so it was dark. And their eyes grew wide, adapting to the  absence of the light. True, most refrained from killing their victims outright. A drink tonight. A drink tomorrow. And some next week. And then the sorrow. For a slow draining ultimately leads to death. But the small ones have their needs and cannot avoid it. The Old Woman clapped her hands. She cackled like a banshee. The rest of the us sat there, afraid to make a move. Papa progressed to the next step. He raked his strong and carefully manicured nails into the skin of his throat. The blood immediately began to flow. Then he lifted up his little demi-corpse, tenderly supporting her fractured neck, so that her mouth was level to the wound, as he nursed her with the crimson milk of death. A tiny tongue peeked out from between her blue and icy lips. She stole a taste. Look, she likes it. Watch her lap in up. See her drink and drink. Hear his low and throaty laughter, as he lures her ever farther from the sun. She shuddered. She burped. She actually did. And it was over. Her bones were healed. She sighed and leaned back, as he craddled and rocked her. Sarah cried softly. Edith whispered a prayer. The one or two Red Paint People present just stared into the middle distance, revealing nothing. wilkravitz silently witnessed it all, waiting for an opportunity to type it up and add it to our story. That's when Papa spoke. He said - See? No harm done. She is as good as new........  He rose to his feet, holding her close to him and said - Please forgive my sudden outburst. I have a temper and cannot help it........ Then he looked at me and added - Jonathon...Tomas...or how ever you style yourself, just don't lie to me again.........  We watched as he walked toward the heavy, metal front door, which opened before him, and carried her out into the cold, winter night......

Wednesday, January 19, 2011


So we sat there, listening to the humans munch their food and watching little Annie squeal as her new best pseudo human friend dribbled the elixir of life into her already ruby stained lips. Boy, are we in  for it. Sarah drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair. She still had that classic, mortal impatience. How appealing. Papa pretended not to notice. The smile never left his face. He said - Why did you never try to free me?...... I stammered. I coughed. And then I said - What could I have done? I was just an 'orphan'. Do you think I actually understood what had happened to me? I didn't know where they were taking you. I found out about that later, much later........He added - What was 'much later' to you is only 'after a bit' to me. I saved you. You would have been killed. The Crusaders would have come back. They were still in the area. They would have burned you or hacked you to death or used you for target practice. But I prevented that. Was it so easy to put me out of your mind?........... I said - Please, I am sorry........That broke the spell. He burned. His face turned hard. He crossed his arms, crushing Annie close to him. She looked frightened. She turned to the Old Woman. But that dried up crone just froze and did nothing. .....He whispered - Don't lie to me. I tasted thousands during my imprisonment. They forced me too. They....addicted me. And through those souls I saw the world. Most of us can sense things. But I know things. And you are a liar........ I didn't know what to say. No, I was afraid to talk. I was afraid to say anything. He started to stroke Annie's hair, brushing it back from her face. His diamond pinkie ring sparkled in the ersatz firelight. He chuckled. He kissed her. The humans did not move so much as an eyelash. Everything stopped. I was afraid to shift my gaze..........He looked at me and said - Well?......But I said nothing.........He said - And?........ But I remained silent........He said - Now I'm getting angry.......His hands resting 'round the little girl's throat.......My eyes met his, silently pleading  for him to leave that damaged child alone......He sighed. No, more than sighed. He exhaled. I think we all did. Everyone  in the room did. But then it happened. We heard the clear, small , sharp crack. And it was done. Her neck was snapped. Edith screamed. He glared at her. She stopped.. Hearts pounded, both human and inhuman. But the tiny dribbles of blood gifts he had given her did their work. Her thin, small legs contorted. Her hands grasped out spasmodically. Stunted pathetic groans rose from her throat.......Papa said - See  what you did? I told you. Don't provoke me. Sarah broke into tears. He started to stroke Annie's hair once more. Then he simply bit through her child sized throat and drank up all the blood. He never spilled a drop...

Tuesday, January 18, 2011


The monstrous, gaseous fire blazed its way across the heavens, then left us all in shadows. Dusk was upon us and we started to awaken.  Each vampire is different. Some stretch and yawn like mortals.Others immediately move about like tightly wound automatons. I am of the former sort. Baylah was still out. She apparently had spent the day holed up with her paramour. Nothing new there. Sarah was at her ablutions. She enjoyed her baths. I went in to help her wash her back. True, we do not attrack dirt, nor do our bodies excreet much, but a hot bath is a hot bath, especially to sometimes clammy creatures like ourselves. I could hear the Old Woman clattering about up in the kitchen, as she prepaired some sort of protien starch mixture for the humans. I do not think I can even recall what food tastes like. Sometimes in a dream I might. But not often. Sarah smelled good. Not necessarily from her expensive bath salts. She always smelled good. And since the old tub was of the huge, ornate, claw-footed variety,I eagerly slipped in to join her. And she agreed that I smelled quite nice too. We tarried in the steaming brew until we both were satisfied, then dried ourselves in turkish luxury. I was in a Jim Morrison mood, and so chose a leather and denim look. It so suited my new, handmade bootkins. Sarah carefully assembled her costume cashmere and fine, wool pants. She put on her new, black bootkins too. Were we always so particular? No, but the presence of our 'visitor' made us so. He seemed to exude an aura, an intoxicating vapor and we could not resist. Up above, the humans were already assembled around the table consuming yellow mounds of cooked, sterile uterine chicken juices. Eggs...eggs...I know what they call them. They eat them a lot. Mortals so enjoy tearing off a bit of a 'tasty' usually dead animal. Not like us. We could never feast upon the dead. It's living fare for us...and always human too. Rat eaters? Deer munchers? Hardly, that is just in fiction. And 'Papa' was there waiting for us. He sat off to the side in one of the large club chairs bouncing Annie on his knee. His clothing was fresh. Where did he get it? From the luggage in his car, naturally. Another fine suit. A trim, starched shirt, worn open at the collar. Everything straight out of G.Q.. No, not G.Q., The Robb Report. He looked like a Wall Street prince and had an appetite to match.. Edith and wilkravitz ate silently. I watched as 'papa' offered Annie sweet, little hot, bloody drops from his finger tips. She quickly clapped her hands and slurped it up. Then he neatly bit into another digit and gave her more. The Old Woman chomped on a thick crust of bread and smiled. Sarah looked at me. I looked at her. Then he spoke. He said - Come, sit down. It is time for us to talk..........How smoothly he takes over. How easy it all seems for him.......Creator and created united at last. Yet this was a conversation I did not want to have.........

Monday, January 17, 2011


The humans were all asleep. Well, the Old Woman was as asleep as she ever gets. But Edith, the questionable little girl Annie and the few Pineys and Red Paints staying with them were contentedly snoring in the dark. Baylah still trysted with her extremely well heeled boyfiend. The parkland refuge was quiet, wrapped in its sheltering, evergreen vale. And a silent powdering of snow drifted down from the heavens. The sumptuous, ebony sedan turned off a nearby service road and drifted to a soundless stop behind the low, brick building. True, it was once a Fairmount Park equipment depot, but our creative immortals did their best, working their magic and transforming the structure into a cozy, snug redout. A scattering of colorful, children's toys (used by the 'cherubs') decorated the great-room floor. And the electric fireplace (with its Amish crafted, walnut mantlepiece) shed a low, orange, comforting glow. Where were the elves and cherubs? Who could know. They flit about the city like wide-eyed, pixilated moths, returning when they chose, staying elsewhere when they do not. But don't worry. They have other places to hide. The heavy, metal door drifted open. 'Papa' stood off to the side, gesturing for Jonathon and wilkravitz to enter. And they did, each finding a commodious seat in one of the club chairs arranged about the room.. No one spoke. Jonathon studied his creator. Modern dress suited him. Whom  did he favor, a somewhat trimmer Alec Baldwin or  maybe a John Gotti? Sarah was not home yet. But she would be there soon, for the daylight  cannot wait. Two cherubs dashed in through one of the small, high windows, sublimating through the glass. But they instinctively felt the gravity of the situation and immediately retreated to one of their closet, hidey-holes. 'Papa' chuckled. He said - I have not seen their like in centuries. It will be good to have them around. So, Tomas... I mean Jonathon, where can I take my ease?...... That was when the gnarled Old Woman stepped out of the shadows and said  - I have prepared a sleeping space, sir. It is in one of the small, side rooms downstairs. You will know iit for the door is opened and a candle shining forth from a glass cylinder, flickers within..... Then she nodded and stepped back....... Jonathon whispered - Well, that takes care of that .I suppose you have a lot of questions? God knows, so do I...... The smartly dressed 'gentleman'  said - That, I do. But the orb turns and soon we shall face the sun. Until the dusk, offspring!..... He rose and went down to his chamber, not like a newcomer, but as if he'd lived there for years..... wilkravitz said not a word, but sat there in silence. Jonathon stared at the artificial attempt at a fire.......Then came the small sound of a key in the back door. Sarah walked into the room. She asked - What's that car doing out back?........Jonathon simply looked at her and smiled........

Sunday, January 16, 2011


I turned and there he was, sitting in a small, corner booth. He smiled, raised his glass and nodded. I went over and stood there looking down at him. He gestured for me to join him. I did. He spoke first, lapsing into a more or less current jargon. He said - Sonny Boy!.......He offered his hand. I grasped it. We maintained physical contact for a heartbeat or two and then let go. He sipped his drink. I do not know how he did that. But he has many tricks. I glanced down at the table and saw an opened copy of Gentleman's Quarterly magazine. He had obviously been reading it. Yet another trick, considering the tiny pool of warm, gold light, issuing forth from the small, shadded lamp.......Planning a shopping trip? - I said.......For many things - he added........Perhaps you will help me? ........... I hesitated, but he continued uninterrupted, talking of our long seperation. And if I still went by Tomas, or had adopted another name. I told him it was not so much  an adoption, as a reassertion of what had  gone before. He said - So, you are Jonathon then. I remember. How could I forget? .......And you? - I asked. What should I call you? How are you addressed?...... He shrugged and said - I don't know. Call me papa........ and so 'papa' he became.  We spoke of many things, about the others in our band, about our refuge, about our 'spiritual' tricks. He said that he especially wanted to meet my granddaughter/consort, my offspring in the spirit and the flesh. He wanted to know Sarah. Then he looked at his watch (something heavy, expensive and brutally metallic) and said that we should be going, since the night would be dying soon. So we went out to the street and walked on about three dozen cubits when he stopped and pointed toward an impressive, black sedan parked by the curb....... Yours? - I said.......He merely smiled and nodded. Then the doors clicked open with quick, modern precision. Was it his magic or simply some other sort of technological enchantment? I could not tell. But I walked around to the passenger side and got in. He lowered himself into the driver's seat and we were off. Soft music, jazz, I think they would call it, warmed the rich, leather lined interior. I studied him. How does he achieve all this? He could not have been here more than a day or two. I would have felt something. Edith would have felt something. Well, maybe we did. Denial can be very strong. Look at him, with his carefully styled salt and pepper hair, his suit, the soft, gray, suede overcoat, like a fit and dapper mafia don. We rode on in silence. Then he said - wilkravitz, your familiar, he is still gaming? Come, we shall pick him up......... So we went to the casino. He valet parked the car like he was born to it and we entered. 'Papa' led the way through the crowds, aiming right for a bank of video poker machines. We stopped short right behind my familiar, who looked up in silent, shocked surprise. I didn't know what to say. I had never intruded on him like this, but 'papa' spoke first. He said - Grab your things we've come to take you home..........wilkravitz cooperated. He gathered together his belongings. It was obvious that he had lost the fivehundred dollars. But at the last instant, 'papa' spoke and said - Look, five credits. One more shot,........He leaned over and pressed the button. The images flickered and three seconds later, wilkravitz was onethousand dollars the richer.  Four Jacks and an Ace. Five of a kind. He looked at me. He did not know what to do. Papa spoke and said - Take it. Take the voucher. It's yours....... So we waited while he went to the bank-like counter and traded the paper coupon for ten crisp one hundred dollar bills. Then we walked out, retrieved the car and rode home in silence.........

Saturday, January 15, 2011

God's Gift (that's what Jonathon Means) Sets Us All Straight

After he left skinny, Miss Pissy Pants on the floor of that multi-leveled vehicle stable, Jonathon condensed back out on the street. It was quiet in the way only late night city streets can be. Steam issued forth from underground caldrons, rising into the night like silent, faceless ghosts. The thoroughfare was narrow, even by the standards of an old municipality like Philadelphia. Sansom Street, that is what it is called, a place lined with quirky restaurants, somewhat theatrical clothing establishments and other unusual venues. Some are at street level, others down a flight of steps in cellars. Back doors belonging to greater emporiums fronting onto Chestnut Street or Walnut Street also commandeer niches in the aging brickwork. The 'Morticia' crowd likes the place (when they tire of South Street's varied delights), but it tends to shutter early and our contemplative prince of darkness had the pavement all to himself. He walked on, the heels of his stylish bootkins tapping out a rhythm on the natural slate below. Every so often a discreet, little feral cat would peek out of the shadows to take his measure, before humbly bowing and retreating in his wake. He liked them. He smiled at them. But his mind was crackling, as the sparks of a billion neurons warmed his brain. Visions danced before his eyes of other lands and other times. Of perfumed gardens in the sun and moonlight on the sea. And he wanted those realities. For if he was planted here on the great eastern seaboard of a vast, new land, he was never-the-less not of this place. Oh, it had its charms. It had its attractions. But he would no longer allow it to control his psyche. Jonathon/Tomas was born under another star and he felt its pull upon his being once more. What does it mean, this vampire existance?  Is he truly one of the demi-angelic host? Who makes them? Which one was the first? And how could that first one come to be if there was not yet another, even earlier one there to pass on the gift? Someone was whispering in his ear. Who was it? He could not tell. There were fewer homeless people out on the streets. The spiritual rebirth (stemming from The Jonathon and Baylah Magic Show) took care of that. True, he was confronted by two sinister cut-throats sauntering down the opposite side of the street. He stopped. They stopped. He stared. They stared. But his gaze cut hard and hot and deep. The cut-throats coughed and blinked and looked away. Crisis averted. Did they deserve to be culled? Not tonight. Not tonight. Not now. He entered a fashionable, little, warm and cosseted cocktail lounge, slid into a welcoming, upholstered booth and ordered a double scotch, the good stuff. He did not drink it, but he enjoyed savoring the aroma. The boite was almost empty. A few well heeled couples sipped nightcaps before climbing up to their bastions in the sky. None looked particularly appetizing. No, he would not kill them. But he might steal a little blood kiss or two. Come morning it would be naught but a troubling, half remembered dream. He wan't supposed to do it. There were no 'visions.' But sometimes he did. So did the other two, though they swore up and down that they did not......The whispering came back. What was it saying? Who was talking? He could not tell. Perhaps Edith or one of the Red Paint Folks would help. Still, when he glanced into the smoky mirror hung behind the bar, he thought he saw the face of his creator.........

Friday, January 14, 2011

TMZ...........and the Vampires

wilkravitz doesn't want to type this out tonight. He wants to go to the casino. They have, I think, three of them. One is in the city. Two are in  the outskirts. The vampires don't want to give him any money. They're afraid he might get drunk on the free drinks and say something he should not say. But then Jonathon has a change of heart. He gives him a few presidential etching certificates from his own leather certificate folder. Wait, wait, wait, I know. I remember. He gives him five Benjamin Franklins. That's five hundred dollars. But he tells him to steer clear of strangers. wilkravitz says that he will. Then he goes down to get washed and dressed. It's cvold, real cold. So he bundles up in one of the shearling coats they got down there. Now he's ready, but he has to walk about a mile to get to the nearest street where he could maybe get a taxi cab. See? Taxi cab. Taxi cab. Taxi cab. Zeb remembers.. Sarah feels sorry for him. She yells - Want me to sublimate you over?...... He says - No, you don't have to go to any trouble........But she knows what that means, so she gets up to take him. Jonathon says - No, that's all right. You stay here. I will take hiim.......She asks - Are you sure?......He sighs, gets up and nods. She settles back and clicks on TMZ. She likes that show. Not for the gossip,because to be truthful, who really cares about those people. And do you really believe that stuff? But she likes to watch the way the kids they got working on that program treat the host. They have absolutely no respect or consideration for him and it shows. He's just a strange 'cultural' joke to them. They're so biased they don't even know it. I don't know why he takes it. Jonathon says what does he care; he's  laughing all the way to the treasure house. So wilkravitz meets Jonathon outside in the quiet, empty, woodlands of the park. He grabs him under the arms, clasps his hands accross his chest, shudders a little bit and they are off. wilkravitz knows the drill. They've done this before. To the occasional squirrel or dirty old pigeon, it looks as if they disappeared. But Jonathon uses some sort of vampiric ability to expand their molecules just a little, so they can rapidly pass through all forms of matter (air included) until they reach their destination. Then they slow down, hopefully in some secluded space where they can re-condense and they're done. That's it. So he let wilkravitz go behind a giant trash recepticle on the vehicle storage plain. wilkravitz most likely would not show up at the refuge till way after sunrise. That meant getting home was his own problem........... And Jonathon did not go directly back, for he's been vexed by a certain vision, a certain evil character just begging to get culled. So he hailed a cab, and rode into midtown, where he got out and went into a certain cozy, little men's shop he likes to frequent. The girls there like him and are always making eyes at him. They like to whip out that skinny, numbered, ribbon thing they got and measure him all up He likes that part too, especially when they're tying to figure out how long his new blue jeans should be. You know they are real careful about the fit. And he is one vain life-eater. I think I once told you. He tends toward a young Antonio Banderas, or maybe a slightly more angular faced  filled out version of that Vincent Chase kid the got on Entourage..........After he leaves that place he strolls over to the entrance of some multi-level, condominium for motor vehicles they got around there. He quietly goes in and winds his way up the ramps till he's on level four. That's where the bad man parks his shiny vehicle. Look, I don't have to tell you what he does. He's bad. He's evil. By his very presence he saps the Godliness out of the world. Jonathon saw him in a dream. He saw him in a vision. That's it. The 'guy's' done. He has to go. So our Zorro look-alike grabs him as he exits the little mechanical up and down room. He pulls him, all kicking and sputtering, behind a concrete pillar and he does it right then and there. The guy moans. His eyes roll back. He slumps down onto the asphalt surface. He coughs. He chokes. He wheezes. Loss of blood ultimately results in loss of oxygen, so they all suffocate. And then he dies. Yet just a second or two before he bursts into the cold, blue flames, just as Jonathon rifles his pockets for valuables and other assets, the door to the other up and down room opens and this skinny, little, pale faced, over dressed chicken girl tip taps her way out (high heels) and sees it all. She starts screaming and screaming. But the neighborhood is pretty empty at this hour so nobody hears her. And that sloppy, lazy kid they got working down in the glass pay-the-money booth ain't never gonna take his eyes off his little hand-held magic push botton space war game. So Miss Boney-Moroney is on her own. Jonathon catches her. He hugs her. He puts his hand over her mouth. Sure she fights him. But then she quiets down. Her heart is still pounding, but she does not move around too much. He says something. He whispers in her ear. He says - You tell me. You tell me. Was he a good mman? Was your boss (and also her sex partner) really a good man? She shakes her head 'no,' and stares wide eyed at the body. Only by this time the blue flame has done its work and there ain't  really too much body left there. So Jonathon pulls off his two carat diamond pinkie ring and stuffs it into her hand. He says - Here, here, take it. Keep it. This is for you. She softly caresses it in her fingers, but she does not say a word. Then he just disappears (sublimated actually) and is gone. The skinny girl just sat there and peed herself right where she was............

Thursday, January 13, 2011

The Book of All Things New / El Libro de Todos las Cosas Nuevas

Morticia goes dancing through the vapors with the elves on a nightly basis. Sometimes with Albion and Marianne. And sometimes with Celeste and Roland. The first two quite reverent. The second pair a bit naughty. But both couples always get the job done. Their purpose? Raining benefits upon the poor. Sick people receive a 'magical' blood vial. Those lacking 'coin' gain wealth. Everyone feels better, especially the immortals. Their favorite? The 'hundred thousand dollar drop.' Imagine being a struggling, almost homeless, single mother with perpetually sick children who suddenly finds herself the proud possessor of a premium, designer handbag (the elves and vampires furnish that too) stuffed with a huge supply of neatly wrapped twenty dollar bills. Publishers' Clearing House? Forget them bitches. Our 'people' do a better job any night. And nobody gets sat on to buy a bunch of bathroom cluttering, old magazines. But there has to be a certain amount of 'cullings' in order to build up those funds. Jonathon, Sarah and Baylah take care of that. The third one hears a lot of juicy stuff through her equities trader boyfriend. So she has a steady stream of nasty big money swindlers waiting for her attentions. Kiss-kiss, bite-bite, grab the Rolex and wallet, goodnight. Sarah and Jonathon do their part too. Even with all the spiritual rebirth going on around town, there are always a few skeptical specimens reluctant to give up their old ways. And if we truly expect to change the world we can't have that.. So the money comes in and the money goes out. And everybody's happy. God bless those jewelry fencing/money laundering familiars of ours. But life (or the vampires version of it) was still good around here. Baylah would dress up and make a personal appearance as 'The Lady' from time to time. Jonathon, not so often. But he still did it when he felt like. True, Edith or a Red Paint, or somebody else would get a little tingle about something troubling coming up over the horizon (The Teacher maybe?), but we tended to push that stuff to the back of our minds. The refuge in the Fairmount Park woods was especially comfy. They even had a brand new, black, shiny baby grand piano in that place. And people with black, shiny, baby grand pianos tend to ignore the nazi at the door. Sarah and Jonathon would sit in front of the 'authentic' electric fireplace during the wee hours of the morning and talk. He'd tell her about other times and other places. Sometimes he'd show her certain pages in his old, vellum journal. She couldn't understand the old Castilian and such, but he'd explain it and make it all right for her. One night she said - So it happens a lot? Vampires impersonating heavenly messengers, I mean...........He answers - Yes, it does. And sometimes it's  vampires impersonating other vampires impersonating heavenly messengers. It can get  very confusing at times. .............She responds - Well, are there any real ones? Heavenly messengers, I mean......... He smiles and says - That, my dear, is a matter of faith.............................. It takes at least eightyfour hours for a whale to travel from the Italian coast to the Jersey shore. The clock is ticking. Company's coming....... Zebulon out.

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

The Book of All Things New

Even Zebulon did not know. The Shaky Hand Man was an emination of my mind, my soul, my dreams. Even I was not completely aware of it. But it was always me. I would explain things to you and tell you of my beginnings, but I do not feel like it. Perhaps sometimes yet to come, after we have grown accustomed to each other I will........Oh, you know, I think the whale does surface and breathe, however the salve encasing me protects my body from the light. Do I see it? Do I experience it? No, I do not. Maybe I drag a thick, gray, bone chilling damp coffin lid of weeping clouds with me. Maybe that is it. Or maybe, something else........I like whale blood. I like whale-life. The creature is quite safe. I could never take it all. The taste is so rich and thick and complex. Think about it, an 'animal' that goes everywhere. It has a sense of our planet as a planet. a finite orb, a tear drop poised in space. My friend, my companion, my traveling partner. This one is in the family way. I can hear the new one deep inside. It's a 'little' blue-ling, the spawn of giants and a future prince of the ocean sea. I talk to it when the mother lets me, when her own voice grows still. She is pensive and contemplative, for she nears the end of her life. This calf will be her last. She has passed three hundred and fifty years  now and by all accounts will die sometime 'round her four hundredth year. Long by your standards, but short by mine........... I 'saw' a figure. A man, I think it was, walking along the abyssmal plain at the bottom of the sea. True, there was a complete abscence of light, but if the whale detected him, ( their echo power, I suppose) I detected him. An image formed in my mind and it was very much like sight. He shuffled along, never looking to the left and never looking to the right. We swam by him, but he never once acknowledged our presence. Yet even in the darkness, he must have felt the eddy as we passed. But then I knew why. For he did not have a face. The front half of his skull, including the lower mandible, was hacked away, probably by the massive beak of a giant squid. A shredded clump of bloodless scraps bounced up and down as he progressed. He wore some sort of contemporary tunic. I belive they call it a t-shirt. The words 'Maroon Five' were inscribed accross the chest. I do not know what that means. And I do not understand how the whale's echo vision could have accomplished such a thing. His pants were quite ordinary, similar to the loosely tailored garments worn by peasants and rustics during the time before my abduction. And I noticed that the flesh on his hands and feet had been completely gnawed away. Then we moved on and abandoned him to the inky darkness. One encounters such things from time to time. Humans generally discredit such tales. Think of Roswell, Area 51 and Sleepy Hollow. You know what I mean. But pay attention. Open your eyes. Throw away the blinders. You just may learn a lot. Be patient. Wait till I 'dissembark.'.  And if you won't admit the truth of such things, know this... If you 'can't' see me.....I can still see you......

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

The Book of All Things New

A whale can course through the ocean faster than the sleekest ship. They marry the womb-like broth and pass through it with complete familiarity. I lay pressed against the gigantic back. My fangs penetrate into the blood-rich hide. No thing, no entity can break this bond. We pass through time and space as one. A protective gelatinous substance oozes from its pores, enveloping my body, smoothing out the rough spots. My being is one with the noble beast. We slice through the briny abyss, speeding passed transluscent, light-emiting organisms. They decorate the darkness like the Saturnalia of Rome. Ah, how I savor those memories. Let my come upon my New World offspring. Let me meld with my New World brethren. Let me instruct them in the way that we should live. For they follow false doctrine and 'The Teacher' needs to set things right. A vampire's life? Bah! They nibble at it like worms on a corpse, when they should tear into it with the strong, bloody teeth of a lion. I saw things. And I know things. I sensed them as they penetrated the stones of my Vatican mausoleum/prison. I tasted them in the salty, red soup of my victims. I saw what they saw, the sweating, human beef of a hundred generations, the ever changing tools of the necromancers. What is a 'lap top' but yet another magic mirror? What is an Amy Winehouse, a Jimmy Fallon, a Bret Favre, a Pink, but contemporary incarnations of long gone Jongleurs? True, interesting, to say the least. I wonder how they will taste? Ah, to live in freedom. To drink in an atmosphere free of sticky mold, decay and corruption. Soon I will know. Soon I will know. Hello, Snookie. Greetings you wearers of eightteen hour bras. Salutations you drinkers of double lattes. I will slurp you up. I will eat you all! My eyes stare out through the milky balm that encases me. Tiny remnants of fragile lifeforms raining down from sun pierced layers stream passed me. I feel the pressure. I feel the depth. I feel it all..... I wonder how they dress in my 'son's' new home? I do so favor a fine tailored doublet. Would that I might find one on that 'Walnut Street' I think they call it. Look for me. You'll know me, for you've never seen the like....................Zebulon talking. Did you read that? Can you imagine this fellow? Is he ever going to be a handful. Annie and her hounds? Nope. That condensed distilation of evil known as The Shaky Hand Man? Please! They are as fleas. But this one will be different. This one will tempt them. And we will see  how 'nobel' our blood drinkers truly are.......But of late, I enjoy watching Roland and Celeste. Who are they? The other two elves, usually content to silently soak things in from the background. But now they are different, stealing out to explore the world with a child-like wonder. It does my heart (or at least  the memory of my heart) good to look upon them. They hide in the ventilation ducts running up above the flimsy 'dropped ceiling' tiles  in department store changing rooms. They peek down through the metal lattices, pointing long, thin fingers and giggling their soundless giggles. Do you think you can hear them? No, you cannot. For they are quiet as dust. Follow our story. Read our tale. Learn our ways. Edith says that one or two of you will be 'translated' before all this is over. I wonder who it will be? I wonder which one of our life eaters will drip the magic on you? I wonder............

Monday, January 10, 2011

The Book of Edith.... sometimes it's my turn

OK, so you know I got the crazy eye (the inner one, I mean) and can read minds and see stuff. Well, my brain (I think it's my brain) is gettin' all clogged up with all this crap and I gotta make room for more. So here goes..... 1) A girl in New Jersey better keep her mouth shut if she knows what I mean, 'cause her friend ain't exactly her friend. And if she likes workin' in that salon she better look for a new lunch partner. That, or eat a lot of dry, crunchy salads - takes a lot of chewin', less time for talkin'.......2) A certain 'you know who'  in Bucks County, Pennsylvania had better get a plumber in to check out that hall bathroom, 'cause it's about to blow a gusher and stain up all that new, 'paper bag' colored paint in the dining room.....3) To the guy with the new Silverado ----- she knows and she is sending the pictures to your mother!.......4) To the folks in # 608 --- When the kid next door turns on its little sister's 'tickle me elmo' it does something to the plate she got in her head and she can see right thru to your master bathroom. But don't worry too much, 'cause she runnin' outta batteries and her mom don't wanna buy her none. So that should end things, unless the little bastid goes rougue and starts boostin' 'em from the Rite-Aid. 5) The next four people who recruit four new readers for this blog are gonna win a new volkswagon Jetta , either that, or I got my telepathic abilities all screwed up with somebody's tee-bo of Drew Carey or somethin'..... Man does that make my scalp itch!

The Book of All Things New

This is Zebulon  bringing you the word from Philadelphia. The pilgrimages continue. Actually, they've really just begun. People report cures. Physcians are 'skeptical' since they can't figure out a way to grab the spotlight and collect money for it all. But know this, the cures are real. Fender  benders are down too. Mindless schoolyard fights and frenzies are down. And the people on the bus are so damn friendly, so damn friendly, so damn friendly. Life is like a song. Everything is kiss-kiss, hug-hug, good hot soup filled with roses and puppies. Our immortal threesome keeps filling those little miraculous blood vials and the elves and cherubs go right on delivering them. Investigative reporters criss cross the town searching for angles (angels too) and stories. Fistfulls of glittering lucre from the vampires treasure cache find their way into deserving, needy pockets. Bag ladies rent luxury apartments. Poor kids on food stamps suddenly have ten thousand dollar bank accounts. Best of all,  no one feels compelled to ask any troublesome questions. And 'urban grunge' becomes the look of choice at all the best tables in stylish restaurants, at least until the diners find the time to purchase an assortment of fashionable outfits. This is a quiet time for the vampires. What,  did you think they do not have them? Well, they do. It is not always high drama, clenched jaws, flaring nostrils, butt cheeks pinched together and other forms of soap opera madness. That stuff only happens on the lesser TV networks (both free and cable) and in teen-between, 'I'm so misunderstood,' blood sucker mall movies. Real life is completely different. So there is plenty of time for our vampires to explore their world and their feelings and each other. Baylah has a boyfriend. He visits her at the piano bar. They spend the night as his place. Didn't I tell you about him already? I could swear I did. He's what we called a merchant-banker. Now they call him an equities trader. He has a seat on the Philadelphia Stock Exchange and a fine, carefully tailored, red brick, Center City, petit palace, not to mention a magazine worthy weekend/summer place 'down the shore.' Does he know about her unusual condition? I don't know. But he must know something. True, it is a dangerous game telling mortals. But Jonathon's familiars know about him, so why should this fellow be any different? Still, he does not know she is 'Our Lady of the Olive Garden. But he does know a lot. I can tell. I have a feeling. Speaking of feelings.....Sarah and Jonathon are certainly getting in touch with theirs. They've taken to wandering naked through the dim and shuttered galleries of the Art Museum.... a pair of regular tableau vivants. Why? Why not? And (in the same condition) they made love right on top of the polished, granite slab dedicated to the unknown soldiers of The Revolution in the middle of Washington Square. Did anybody see? They must have. No one said anything. It was three thirty in the morning. True, a lot of cats started vocalizing, but I don't know if the two events were in fact connected or not. Most of the people living in the high rises around that way have fairly steady incomes, so they were probably snoring away in preperation for  next mornings's trot on the tread-wheel.. Then, when they get tired of that (Jonathon and Sarah, I mean) they sublimate into the zoo, where they ride the magically liberated great, white, arctic bears through the deserted, cobbled lanes. And according to the residents of monkey island, it is quite the show. Want to hear something else I know? Hitler and Liberace  have a big, hit show in the neather world.. No, they're not exactly neighbors. Hitler gets a work pass to commute up for the show. What's it called? I told you...The Hitler and Liberace Show! Look, I'll see if I can get you tickets when you die. No, really, I promise.. So, don't say I never do anything for you............

Friday, January 7, 2011

The Book of All Things New

Jonathon sits reading his centuries old, vellum journal. He carefully turns the pages reviewing his time in London during the catastrophic contagion of the sixteen sixties, the fall of Byzantium to the Ottoman empire and countless other places as well. Then he takes out a new, dollar store, composition book and begins to inscribe the details of hism current life........ Outside, Morticia is on the snow covered roof with Albion, Marianne and  one or two of the other elves. Albion speaks. He says - No, really we can. We can share the gift with you. We can enable you to fly....... Morticia giggles nervously. She does not believe it. She says - How? How can you do it? I don't have any powers. I can read minds a little, but everybody can do that........Marianne interjects - You do not require any magic of your own....... Albion - We have more than enough to go around. It is a gift. Think of it as a gift. We are giving you a gift. Are you ready?..... Morticia - I, I think so........ She stands her ground, closes her eyes and clenches her mitten-clad fists. She shivers a bit, more from apprehension than from the cold. Albion neatly bites into the skin of his inner wrist, draws in some blood, throws back his head and gargles a little. Then he lowers his gaze and focuses on Morticia. He rises up off the powdery surface  till his feet dangle six inches above the roof-top. Then he blows the blood out of his mouth and into the cold, frosty air, where it instantly solidifies into a glittering mist of tiny, sparkling points of light, which settle on Morticia, gilding her with radiance. She giggles some more....... Albion speaks - Now do not simply dream it. Do it. Be it. Become the air. Rise up. Break free....... And so she does. Morticia rises up, a bit wobbly at first, but soon finding her balance. The elves rise up and join her.And they streak off (wearing clothing of the appropriate black color) to penetrate the night. Such are things in The City of Brotherly Love......... Yet  on another continent things are different. The Teacher comes to the shoreline. It is dark. An icy, bone-gray, January moon holds court above a silver-black sea, as the starry chorus twinkles in the background. The Teacher steps into the cold as death brine. He moves forward till the water reaches his chin. Then he begins to swim. Does a vampire feel the cold? Yes. Is it painful? That is relative. Pain is a signal announcing injury or infection. What are they to a creature beyond death? So, no, they do not 'acknowledge' pain. Not like mortals. It is merely a sensation, like an exotic flavor one developes a taste for. And so he swims on till the land turns back and forgets him. A meteor quickly slashes across the sky. But he is fixed on other things. And a song begins to pulse across the waves. A chant, a drone, an aria sung by beings vast and knowing. The whales rise ever toward the surface, until he feels their huge, leviathan presence. It brushes his belly. He stops swimming. He is familiar with these creatures and has traveled like this before. He kisses the back of the benevolent beast, drawing in a throatful of rich, hot blood. Then he seals his lips around the bleeding wound and closes his eyes. And this is how they move on, united as one. When the whale dives down into the abyss, he dives with it. In this manner the exit the Pillars of Hercules and pass out on to the broad, immensity of the North Atlantic. Do the whales have to surface? Do the whales require breath? Was he naked to the sun? I do not know. Some secrets are kept even from Zebulon and I do not know what magic happens when a vampire voyages thusly. I cannot tell you. But they continue on in this fashion and will do so till they reach the Jersey Shore.

Thursday, January 6, 2011

The Book of All Things New

This is Zebulon. Of course you  know this is Zebulon. What am I thinking. With what other narrative voice do you have such a relationship! The other narrators like to maintain their anonimity, but not me. Oh, and via the akoshic records, I know your names too! Hello, Jason! Greetings Melissa! I could go through the list, but you know who you are. Now back to the buzzings and bitings in the nocturnal world. For the time being, things are good. The world, or the Philadelphia part of it, is a better place. Still, no one thing, no one force is universal and absolute. There are always bubbles in the batter. And so, some 'iffy' souls are still breathing. That means our life eaters still have a certain measure of work to do. Not much, but some. They have gone back to monthly, lunar cullings. If I am correct, right now, Sarah is taking out a crooked civic guard ('cops' I think they call them). She knows where he hides. She knows where he sets his trap. If you have the right 'look' and the right last name, you don't get the ticket. But if you have the 'wrong' look and the 'wrong' type of last name, you get the ticket, regardless of how you were driving. And that is but one of his lesser crimes. Neighborhood thugs who 'play ball' are ignored. Others are robbed, or beaten, or killed. Does he act alone? Unfortunately not. But  tonight it is his turn to 'learn his lesson.' Although I fail to see how this newly acquired information will be of any benefit to him, since he will soon be completely and utterly dead. Look, look, look! He stops her on the street. He thinks she is a 'street walker.' He threatens to take her in.But it is only a 'scam.' We know what he really wants. Sarah pretends to ce concerned. She invites him to join her in a nearby, dark, sticky, greasy alley. He smiles and says - What for?..... She says - A free sample. I've got some new 'merchandise.' Come and tell me what you think.'........ He parks the car and follows. He pushes her against an unsavory surface. But before he can unfasten any of his many buttons, 'snaps' or 'zippers,' she has him. She caresses him. She kisses him. He growls - Cut that shit, you bitch. I don't have all night..... So she does what he wants. She gets right to it. She rips his collar, twists his neck to better present the necessary blood vessel and goes to work. He shudders. He moans. He struggles and tries to draw his gun. But it is too late. His blood is hers now. His life is over. His crimes are done. Sarah watches as his body collapses down onto the filth and burns away. But she did take his watch first, a nice one. Gold, inscribed with the name of some famous 'creative' and well marketed individual. It will be a welcome addition to their treasure cache. Jonathon and Baylah did their duty too. There were three blue flames this night. And the treasure cache was fattened accordingly.........And later? Later they all retreat back to the snug refuge. The three life eaters, joined by Edith, the telepathic Piney woman, take their ease in front of an orange, electric fireplace blazing forth from a genuine Amish mantle (it was a good deal on some shopping station and the elves and cherubs wanted it so they bought it). The vampires each enjoy a soothing aroma candle. Edith sips a cup of tea laced with a liberal splash of Jack Daniels. They stare into the quasi authentic, somewhat animated flames. But all is not peaceful. They can sense it. They can feel something. Jonathon knows. The one who created him, the one who named him Tomas, is on his way. His spiritual father is coming by for a visit. And as in most 'families' there is friction......For 'Daddy' seems just a wee bit upset.....

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

The Book of All Things New

The parking lot surrounding The Olive Garden Restaurant is now a pilgrimage destination. Reform Congregation Rodeph Shalom is now a pilgrimage destination. People claim to have received cures. People claim to have had encounters with 'passed' loved ones. A Red Paint 'seer' tells Jonathon and Baylah that they have created a truth. It is not a falsehood. It is no longer a lie. God has stepped in to make it real, like the healing sap, bled by a tree to seal a wound. Jonathon asks - Whose reality, whose truth did I create? And the seer answers - Elijah the Tishbite's, the Prophet Elijah. He who prepares the way of the Annointed One.....Jonathon asks - Does that mean the Annointed One, blessed be he for whom we have been waiting, will come?..... The seer simply shrugs. He turns to Baylah and says - You need not ask. You know. You set out to emulate the Mother of the Nazarene. And you  did it very well. You created a void for her to fill. And there is a pattern here, in Philadelphia I mean. First we had  the unexplainable events captured by the universal eye. (he turns to Edith) What is it? She responds - The internet. He says - Yes, the internet. Like a fisherman's tool. It gathers us all in. Then we had the night without death. That one was a 'biggie.' And now we have this....... Sarah says - I see young people wearing 'My hands are God's Hands' hoodies when I go out. I don't know where they're getting them or if anyone makes a profit, but I see it. And the news says street corner drug traffic is way down...... Albion puts down a handful of Legos, silently approaches and adds - We visit aged ones in those orphanages for the elders they have. And the care givers are starting to seem as if they really do care. Even the physicians. There are less bed sores and less carelessly spread infections. There are more visits by children too. I condensed  at a bed side late last night, about the second or third hour after midnight, and a doozing son and daughter were still there keeping vigil over their ailing mother. They woke just as I offered her the blood. Just as she tasted the drops in the vial. They looked, but did not say a word. And they heard me say 'God bless you' as I quickly sublimated away. To them it must have seemed as if I disappeared........ Sarah - I wonder what they thought?....... They know that she is well now. Isn't that enough? - whispered the young 'elf.' And they sat there, in the hours before the dawn as they always do, discussing their 'lives,' sharing hopes, expressing fears. A peaceful night, in a snug refuge deep within the woods of the vast city park............But in Rome, things were not so peaceful. Police and other more mysterious individuals surround a  house in the rain where The Teacher had been sheltering as he composed his thoughts. The area is cordoned off. A chorus of glossy reporters hovers in the distance. People whisper - The Vatican Bomber, The Vatican Terrorist, they have found him. He is about to be apprehended..... Everyone grows silent. The police begin to move in. But their prey rushes out like a charging bull. He roars with rage. The humans fall back. Some of the civic guards hold their ground. And he sublimates and barrels right through them, his tiny, glass-like particles shredding them to bits. The remains splash down onto the paving stones and are  washed away by the rain drops. But those body parts which were not shreaded, such as the occasional head, knee or hand, do not wash away. They lay there on the ground as a swarm of image recording devices whirr away.....

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

The Book of All Things New

And the city of Philadelphia was a changed place. The atmosphere seemed softer and easier to breathe. Pilgrims came into the city, more than came after the first internet postings a few months earlier. More than when Morticia and her lot arrived. The 'New Pilgrims' are not just goths and lovers of magic, heaven forbid. The new people are true spiritual seekers and they come in all faiths. Something happened here (if they only knew the truth). And they all want to be part of it.  The hotels are filled. Some residents rent out rooms in their homes. Everyone in our own little group, the vampires, the humans (both Pineys and Red Paints) and any other assorted disembodied spirits we may have floating around are caught up in it too. Who cares how it started? Thank God that Jonathon and Baylah are such good actors. Thank God they've kept up their sublimation skills. Jonathon is still not quite sure how he managed the 'heavenly' illumination that accompanied his descent into the sanctuary. But things like that sometimes happen and that, in itself, is a miracle. Wait, did I say that all the humans among us were caught up in this? Well, that is wrong, or at least it appears to be wrong. The Old Woman and Annie are almost completely silent and impassive, so it is hard to tell. But I would guess that they are not in this. I am sure of it. Look, I could pass through the akoshic records and pick up a few things. If you want, I will try. Send me your thoughts. I will get the message. And I have tried. But the 'records' are troubled by a strange spiritual static as of late and they are quite difficult to understand. I could go, but it would only be a guess. I am even having trouble communicating with you right now. Someone else wants to speak. And the 'someone else' scares me. So say good bye to Zebulon for the time being. Believe me, I am glad to get out of 'its' way...............Open yourself to me! Witness my reality! Pay attention! There is much to absorb! Open your eyes (your spiritual eyes) and see! The prison shatters. The walls fall away. I thought that I would be able to sublimate through the very lead and rocks. But this is different. The ceiling crumbles. Lead whines and groans, splits open and explodes. Functionaries scream. They pray. They scramble off to safety. They contact others on little, black, magical communication shards. Lights rains down to blind me. It is not the sun, but it is bright and hot and new. I have not felt the like for centuries. My skin begins to steam, but I do not truly burn. I rise up, whether via sublimation or by simply scampering out like a demon freed from hell I do not know. There is a hallway, a passage way. The floors are paved in polished granite. The walls finished in marble and the finest, ivory-like plaster, but the structure seems to groan and pop. Little ant-like workers in black cassocks race around shouting to each other. Loud wails echo from the walls, over and over and over. Their sound is deafening, like the great bells of Kiev! A few of the terrified humans begin motioning to me. They want me to follow them. They want me out of this fortress of stolen artwork (for that is what I sense it to be......indeed, they once 'stole' me) as soon as possible. Small cracks appear on the granite with my every step. The cassock-wearers cry and gnash their teeth. They plead with  me to follow (and I do). We seem to be going toward an exit. Someone throws me a monk's robe. I haistily tie it on, my own garments long since turned to rags. A door flies open. BOOM!! I am out on a street. No, not a street, a public square. Frightened people run in all directions. Is it an earthquake? No one knows. Masonry rains down on the populace. People fall. People bleed. And I raise the cowl, lower my head and walk on. Horrific, shell-like vehicles race onto the scene, each carrying a contingent of civic guards. Weapons are drawn. Those tiny communication shards are much in evidence. A group of carefully groomed humans race into the area, turn to face a bank of torches (I think they're torches), lick the food from off their teeth (each one checks the other) and begins  speaking into thick, little magic wands. A crowd gathers to watch. But I continue on my way and disappear into the still surviving, winding recesses of The Eternal City........

Monday, January 3, 2011

The Book of All Things New

I can see the cracks. Not in actuality, but in my soul. I see them spidering through the heavy, leaden walls. How is it happening? I am not sure of that. I cannot tell you. And I do not sense an awareness of it on the part of my captors. They have sensors. They have these little, all knowing devices planted all around. But this is something different and they cannot pick it up. Of that I am sure. 'The Teacher' knows. I feel restless. There is a tingling in my fingers. My skin feels hot. Soon...soon I will slip away. I will go through the cracks. I will sublimate out into this world, this time of a thousand wonders. What will I be to them? Who will I devour? Which ones will deserve to be devoured. And do I even care?....But will it ever happen? Do I have the strength to sublimate through untold thicknesses of lead and rock and marble? Will I make it, or will I begin to condense while still imprisoned deep within the ground? That would destroy me. Every tiny shard of rock and mica would slice me into an infinity of oozing particles, a strange and magical feast for the minute death eaters inhabiting that space. Yet even that would be a freedom of sorts. Tomas.... I must find Tomas. He is the next link in my chain. Kill him? Yes, I would delight in it. But that cannot happen. I made him and I am responsible. He must go on. But oh, how torturous his journey will be. He did not even attempt to save me. He knew where I was (indeed, still am) and was content to forget me. But I did not forget him...... Look at him there in the municipality known as Filidelfia. Look at the ersatz 'family' he has assembled 'round himself. His great granddaughter-wife. His helpmate, Baylah. Those infernal 'children.' And the humans, such talents they have. Like accomplished shamans from the time of my birth. How I would like to study them and maybe even sample a few. What  does Tomas/Jonathon call them? The Red Paint People. It has a certain ring to it. It seems to stimulate various oilly nodules in my brain (yes, I am quite familiar with human anatomy.....I've dismembered enough of them.). Perhaps they are my cousins? Perhaps we are related? Ah, what a family reunion that would, my spiritual offspring and my fleshly brothers and sisters. Ooh, I must bring gifts! The cracks... The cracks are growing longer. They grow wider. He sees me. Jonathon sees me. I can sense it. I can feel it. He stops, grows silent and stares off into space. Baylah notices. She sees everything. And then there is Annie. Some say she is 'cured.' Of what, I am not exactly sure. What a twosome we could be. What playmates! Shhhh, they're sliding  down more food, some students from a nearby university. What crime did they commit? Why are they so damned? Listen to their prayers. And in this place, at this site, you'd think that they would be heard. There are three of them, two girls and a boy. They've hit bottom. They're doing what they all do, searching for some means of escape. Listen to the hearts. Listen to them pounding. Smell the bloody fingers. Dig, dig, dig. Search, search, search. Pray, pray, pray. Curse, curse, curse. I think I will take the first two quickly. I will pounce like a great cat, or a steely eyed raptor. The first two will go fast. But the third one will have to wait. And I will take my time. And I will progress at my leisure. Slow and deliberate, like a spider in the dark........ Filadelfia, here I come.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

The Book of All Things New

It is I, 'The Teacher.' I have not released you yet. There is more that I must say. Be quiet and read. In the beginning, at the start of my captivity, I was pure. I was nobel and true to our calling. But my captors taunted me. They cursed me and said that I was damned, though that did not stop them from wanting to learn of my abilities and secrets. They desired my powers. But I told them nothing, for I knew them to be hypocrites and evil men..... In truth, there were somme sincere believers among them who gainned solace and morality from their creed. But my guards were not of that number. My 'handlers' I believe they would call them now, were of a different breed. Indeed, most Vatican functionaries were unaware of their existance. They survived and endured as a shadowy force, whispered about, but seldom seen........ When the lofty door at the top of the slippery chute was opened and victims thrown down the 'throat of death,' they would listen. When it was over, when the screaming stopped and I had fed, they would ask me questions. Their voices echoed down to me. But I would curl up, hug my knees, say my prayers and tell them nothing. So they would throw down another victim. And another. And another, in an effort to ensnare me and inflame my thirst. for living nourishment. I ate. And I ate. And I ate. Initially I tried to hold back. I tried to controll myself. The pathetic victims would survive. They would sit with me in the darkness. We would talk and confide in each other. I told them of my 'life,' and they told me of theirs. But then the moon would wane. The month would end and a new cycle would begin. I could feel it. Hundreds of cubits below the streets of Rome and I could feel it, a visceral gnawing, a visceral ithching beyond the limits of my endurance. It was a fundamental 'call' and I was helpless. There was absolutely no thing I could do. The victims knew it. They sensed it. They felt it. At first, I would grow unresponsive and then, after a while, completely silent.. And they would grow wary. Small parcels of food and drink were slid down to them. I could hear them chew. I could hear them swallow. And then I would inch closer. And closer still. I would sniff all about them. Tasting the particles of their essence in the dank and putrid air. They would gasp and freeze up in fear. A heartbeat can make music. It can keep cadence better than a drum. The low, throbbing sound would call me. It would tempt me. It would bewitch me and set my soul on fire. The human would suddenly feel my breath upon its neck. I could hear the sobs. I could smell the tears. Sometimes, I would lick them off. I enjoyed that. Not a word was spoken. What good would it have done? And then I would break through the skin and feed, an addict lost to this most dangerous of drugs....... At times I prayed. I prayed for Tomas (known to you now as 'Jonathon') to mount an invasion and swoop down into this vile place at the head of a band of angels and set me free. But they never came. Tomas never came. I could feel his heart. I could live his thoughts. That's what kept me going. And I presume he could hear me as well. But there was no rescue. I had no hope. I could not climb up to the top of the chute and force my way out. Believe me, I tried. But they would force me back with fire and throw down more flesh. And after a time, on a certain level, I did not want to escape. I just wanted the lives. I just wanted the nourishment. They used me as a cesspool. They used me as a sewer to wash away all those deemed unfit, for all those beyond their limited grasp of salvation. And I did my job. And I did it well.....Can you picture me? Can you see my face. I am sending you an image. Remember, since the first posting of this tale more that four months ago, we have only been pretending that this is fiction. But I think you know that, especially one in Sweden and another in the Balkans. Relax....Close your eyes.... I'll show you more....

Saturday, January 1, 2011

The Book of All Things New

What name have I given you in the past!? No, wait. What does that matter to me? That is less than shit to me. You are less than shit to me. I dine on better than you. You mean nothing. When  you are no more than earthly corruption, when your name is unknown even to the filth that consumed you, I will  still be here. I will see your descendents perish....if you even have descendents. Who am I? Well, I will tell you, for you find me in a charitable mood. I am He who Made Tomas. Yes, yes, I know he prefers the name'Jonathon' now. But there will be a lot of 'nows' annd he will become enamored of many names. So refer to me as 'The Teacher,' for I will show you what it really means to be a life eater. And believe me. I have learned from the best! What is that Philadelphia band, but a deluded collection of tattered angels? I harbor no pious conceits. I did once, but not now.  Look at that wilkravitz person typing away. He thinks this comes from 'Jonathon.' But does he ever ask why that reluctant killer doesn't sit down and operate this contraption himself? How difficult can it be if the lumpen, sweating masses can do it? How hard to understand, if my cheap, little appetizers comprehend it? The 'chains' are weakening. My captors are blind to it, but they are weakening. Soon I shall shread their soft, sallow hides and send them to bathe in The Lake of Fire. Soon I shall see beyond the eternal darkess of my leaden tomb and walk free in the world once again. I can already see the cracks spidering through the thick, cold walls. I can already see the terror eroding the flesh of my enemies. And they thought a disembodied spirit was hard to handle.  Wait. Have patience. They will scream out new words to label the horrors I will commit.....But now I am hungry. It is 'their' fault. They have made me like this. They have accustomed me to it. There was a time when one 'meal' a 'moon' was enough. But not now. Shhhh, I hear the door opening above. I hear the words. I hear the pleading (odd, I once had a set-up something like that.....ask 'Jonathon' to tell you about his nativity)  The 'meat' is forced through. They push 'it' down the ancient chute, a long and polished wicked fun-faire ride. A greased eusophagus plunging down to hell. And I am there to catch them when they fall. True, at times I do just that. But there are instances when I am not so hungry. I wait. I wait silently in the blackness , two hundred cubits beneath the  eternal cobblestones of Rome. And I listen. I listen to the cries. I listen to the whimpers. I listen to the prayers. They get up. They explore. There must be a way out. There must be a door. There must be some way to escape..... But there is no way to escape. There is no hope. Who better than I to know that fact? I have been searching for an eternity. So I bide my time until the hunger moves me. Then I breathe, or cough, or move about. And they shout - Who is that!? Who are you!? .... That goes on for a while. But then they grow apprehensive. Then they grow silent. And the crying comes back again . And then I make my move. Sometimes I grab an ankle. Sometimes a torso, or a cheek, or an ear, or any other plump and lucious part. My hands are like ice, so cold they burn. And then I begin to feed. I begin to bite. I begin to drink. A few die right then and there. I don't like that. Dead food is worthless. It offers no nourishment. Blood tastes good, but it is the taking of the life that matters. And dead ones, or rather those who die before I am satisfied, do not ignite into the cold, blue flame (my only source of illumination), leaving me with a monstrous pile of oozing , stinking, refuse. The noxious odor sickens me. I am forced to break the bones and shread the flesh with my fingers, rendering it into smaller and smaller bits and patting it all together into a neat, little pile at the spot where I hope my next (successful) meal will ignite into a cleansing, blue flame and burn it all away. This one will not have to wait long. I told you, I am in a charitable mood. Just a little bit.. Be patient. My time approaches. 'Teacher' is coming. And class will be in cession soon enough....