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And the dawn came up like blueberry-lemon water ice. The vampires curled up in Edith's root cellar. They don't have no little flat screen TV's in there, like they do in the city, so Mister Edith ran over to the 'Snatch & Grab' (their general store) and bought them some cheap, tiny, music catching devices called 'battery powered radios.' Then he filled them up with these tiny rollers. Look like Babylonian cylinder seals. You know, what they used to print their names. Now, nobody prints their name. They all have pin numbers.
Mister Never-You-Mind drifted off to hear some 'strummin' and pickin'..... That's how they play this lyre thing they call a banjo. He likes banjos. But don't worry, because you have me now. You have Zebulon, the thirteen year old Judean boy who got stoned to death for playin' 'herbal healer' with a pagan sorceress. Worse thing is we never got to the good part. Never did see what a little gherkin can do.
I have been undulating through this ongoing tale since 5771. That's a bit over two years ago to the calendar-challenged among you. Jonathon, also known as Tomas, is a favorite of mine. He does not know it, but a distant progenitor of his kept company with The Blue Jinn, known throughout The Dual Monarchy of Israel-Judea since the heady days of Solomon The Great. He taught me how to turn beetles into grapes and snakes into diadems ( the jinn, that is). Last I heard he slipped into a parallel universe. Hope they have honeyed dates there. He loves honeyed dates. Sweet meats and Circassian dancing girls...... two of his favorite things...... But enough of this digression. Please allow me to steer our dhow back to its original course. Permit this lowly, dog-of-Canaan (though I, myself, identify with the royal Salukis)to return to the Barrens, in the province of Later-Day-Jersey.... I mean NEW Jersey... and regale you, once more, with the local goings-on....
While the life-eaters were sleeping, other things transpired. A Red Paint mother went searching for her little daughter. The girl never showed up for lunch...and braised muskrat can be so enticing. She attempted to contact the missing child both verbally and via mind-talk. Red Paints are especially adept at mind-talk, often breaking into the assorted day-dreams of people as far away as King of Prussia (real s.e. Pennsylvania town) and Bivalve, New Jersey. Yet her talents proved fruitless. Nothing worked. She sat herself down on a dead, spongy log and cried.
But half passed a Sidonian hour-glass she saw something. Off to the right, under a stand of rather thick, Boston ferns of the feral variety. She saw a head... a little, gray, pale head, sticking up out of the damp earth like a mushroom. It had long, dark brown hair and the tiny tattoo of a crescent moon 'tween the eyebrows....... It belonged to her little girl.... not just the tattoo, but the head. So the Red Paint mother sobbed, as she fell down on her knees to retrieve it.
Now damp earth is hard to dig, even with a spade. And this one had only hands. But after approximately eight hundred and fifty two tears she cleared away the dirt covering the torso. That's when she saw the holes, at least a dozen of them, entering the poor, skinny body from all angles. Such wounds are caused by arrows. The woman knew that. And when she was done, she picked up the body and slowly walked back home.
Red Paints are usually moderate in all respects. They speak quietly, dance quietly and sing quietly..... But they also kill quietly.
Edith saw the sad, sad woman three hundred and fifty heartbeats later and she ran down from her porch to help her.....
It was time for a 'throwin' of the bones'.....
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please hit the SHARE BAR. please leave a COMMENT. shhhh, I hear distant thunder... good night...
Mister Never-You-Mind drifted off to hear some 'strummin' and pickin'..... That's how they play this lyre thing they call a banjo. He likes banjos. But don't worry, because you have me now. You have Zebulon, the thirteen year old Judean boy who got stoned to death for playin' 'herbal healer' with a pagan sorceress. Worse thing is we never got to the good part. Never did see what a little gherkin can do.
I have been undulating through this ongoing tale since 5771. That's a bit over two years ago to the calendar-challenged among you. Jonathon, also known as Tomas, is a favorite of mine. He does not know it, but a distant progenitor of his kept company with The Blue Jinn, known throughout The Dual Monarchy of Israel-Judea since the heady days of Solomon The Great. He taught me how to turn beetles into grapes and snakes into diadems ( the jinn, that is). Last I heard he slipped into a parallel universe. Hope they have honeyed dates there. He loves honeyed dates. Sweet meats and Circassian dancing girls...... two of his favorite things...... But enough of this digression. Please allow me to steer our dhow back to its original course. Permit this lowly, dog-of-Canaan (though I, myself, identify with the royal Salukis)to return to the Barrens, in the province of Later-Day-Jersey.... I mean NEW Jersey... and regale you, once more, with the local goings-on....
While the life-eaters were sleeping, other things transpired. A Red Paint mother went searching for her little daughter. The girl never showed up for lunch...and braised muskrat can be so enticing. She attempted to contact the missing child both verbally and via mind-talk. Red Paints are especially adept at mind-talk, often breaking into the assorted day-dreams of people as far away as King of Prussia (real s.e. Pennsylvania town) and Bivalve, New Jersey. Yet her talents proved fruitless. Nothing worked. She sat herself down on a dead, spongy log and cried.
But half passed a Sidonian hour-glass she saw something. Off to the right, under a stand of rather thick, Boston ferns of the feral variety. She saw a head... a little, gray, pale head, sticking up out of the damp earth like a mushroom. It had long, dark brown hair and the tiny tattoo of a crescent moon 'tween the eyebrows....... It belonged to her little girl.... not just the tattoo, but the head. So the Red Paint mother sobbed, as she fell down on her knees to retrieve it.
Now damp earth is hard to dig, even with a spade. And this one had only hands. But after approximately eight hundred and fifty two tears she cleared away the dirt covering the torso. That's when she saw the holes, at least a dozen of them, entering the poor, skinny body from all angles. Such wounds are caused by arrows. The woman knew that. And when she was done, she picked up the body and slowly walked back home.
Red Paints are usually moderate in all respects. They speak quietly, dance quietly and sing quietly..... But they also kill quietly.
Edith saw the sad, sad woman three hundred and fifty heartbeats later and she ran down from her porch to help her.....
It was time for a 'throwin' of the bones'.....
""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""
please hit the SHARE BAR. please leave a COMMENT. shhhh, I hear distant thunder... good night...
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