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Two and a half years ago, the story began this way - First of all, we must agree that what comes next is fiction.... And we had to say that for a reason, because almost ALL that we DO say is NOT fiction. Night-folk are among us. Vampires are here. Oh, we toy with the idea, yet fear to embrace it. Thus we vacillate and hide things.
Two days ago, you saw a story about a FLASH MOB gone wrong in Center City, Philadelphia. Hundreds, if not thousands of young people careened through the streets, babbling in tongues and whipped to a frenzy. Legions of patrolmen confronted the multitude, arresting some and diverting others.
'Just kids'... 'Two girls fighting'... 'Spring fever'... that's what they said. I'm surprised they didn't blame swamp gas. But certain 'people' know different. Jonathon preaches, even during the day, from a subterranean chamber beneath a landmark, pre-War, Avenue of the Arts building. You've seen it. The bank building in TRADING PLACES.
Souls from the shelters drift in... people off the street.... businessmen and businesswomen from the cloistered sanctums up above.... They all come. And he speaks to them, proclaiming 'The Unity' and reading some minds. Occasionally he even sublimates. People cry. They hug each other and laugh. Sure, some just want the juice and cookies, or those good, little canolis they get from that place on Ninth Street. Though a few are transformed. And others, especially on days when the apple juice ain't apple juice, go berserk.
Sarah tries to stop him. She says it isn't time. Edith boils a big pot of spaghetti. You know how much vampires love that smell. But he had that 'visitation.' And he believes it.
They ask him questions. The people in that basement, I mean. They say - Who are you?..... He says - Jonathon.... A few among them know that means 'gift from God.' But most don't.... They say - What are you?..... He says - A teacher.... But they get really confused when he starts levitating and sublimating. Some of them scream. And he doesn't have any will power that Jonathon. He keeps doing it. But he does believe he was called. He does believe in his message..... 'The righteous of all groups shall share in The World To Come.' ....
Then, when he surreptitiously bites into his lip and kisses the sick among them, who almost instantly get well, they gasp. A palsied woman laughs and walks straight. A burnt man is healed. It's true. They know it. They saw it. They were there.
But some people know how to have a transcendental religious experience and some don't. Some pray quietly, while others stampede. And that's what happened two days ago on Chestnut Street.
Already, the police and the press tell us to expect more of the same. They blame the weather. They blame the springtime. They blame the heat. But Jonathon won't stop. He rarely sleeps at the town house. Oh, he goes there. He checks on things. It's still his home. But he spends each day in different shelters. Sometimes in the tunnels, with the mole people. Sometimes in the catacomb-like storage rooms under certain museums. He is still on good terms with most of the curators in town. And the mummies, at least those with their internal spirits intact, know him by name.
Yet the media ignores him. Perhaps for the best.
A few of those in attendance, for the preaching, I mean, go not for spiritual benefit, or even the first rate canolis. They go to watch... and observe... and learn. Maxwell's men, they are, alchemists of The Golden Order. Top notch scientists to you and me. They mix nostrums and potions. It's rumored they've captured a cherub and torment that innocent creature with tinctures and concoctions of a most noxious sort.
But Jonathon is careful to avoid the streets, traveling from shelter to shelter via the tunnels and the cellars and the cave-like places down below. Still, spies are everywhere. Maxwell has them. The media has them. So do the police, not to mention various governmental agencies. That's the way it is. Doctor Franklin's offered to help. I think he's trying to do something with his Grand Armonica too.... the lost chord and all that..... an harmonic vibration lost to humanity since the Atlantian deluge and believed necessary for spiritual balance and well being. But so far, Jonathon declines.
And the Black Maria comes out each night, pulled by a matched pair of dove gray Percherons. Most think it's just some tourist thing.... but it's not.
Other vampires, from here in town and distant places too, continue combing the streets. Night crimes disappear, as the Bedlam-like corridors of Old Eastern State Penitentiary fill up. The ghosts torment them mercilessly, the prisoners, I mean. The guards say they scream like banshees.
Shhh, I hear hoofbeats. The lead lined 'cube'... the Black Maria draws near. Some abroad in the wee hours look up. Others draw back to the shadows.
And so the nights pass, as summer comes to the city.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
thank you. for more, hit THIS ... your COMMENTS & LINKS are very important to us.
Two days ago, you saw a story about a FLASH MOB gone wrong in Center City, Philadelphia. Hundreds, if not thousands of young people careened through the streets, babbling in tongues and whipped to a frenzy. Legions of patrolmen confronted the multitude, arresting some and diverting others.
'Just kids'... 'Two girls fighting'... 'Spring fever'... that's what they said. I'm surprised they didn't blame swamp gas. But certain 'people' know different. Jonathon preaches, even during the day, from a subterranean chamber beneath a landmark, pre-War, Avenue of the Arts building. You've seen it. The bank building in TRADING PLACES.
Souls from the shelters drift in... people off the street.... businessmen and businesswomen from the cloistered sanctums up above.... They all come. And he speaks to them, proclaiming 'The Unity' and reading some minds. Occasionally he even sublimates. People cry. They hug each other and laugh. Sure, some just want the juice and cookies, or those good, little canolis they get from that place on Ninth Street. Though a few are transformed. And others, especially on days when the apple juice ain't apple juice, go berserk.
Sarah tries to stop him. She says it isn't time. Edith boils a big pot of spaghetti. You know how much vampires love that smell. But he had that 'visitation.' And he believes it.
They ask him questions. The people in that basement, I mean. They say - Who are you?..... He says - Jonathon.... A few among them know that means 'gift from God.' But most don't.... They say - What are you?..... He says - A teacher.... But they get really confused when he starts levitating and sublimating. Some of them scream. And he doesn't have any will power that Jonathon. He keeps doing it. But he does believe he was called. He does believe in his message..... 'The righteous of all groups shall share in The World To Come.' ....
Then, when he surreptitiously bites into his lip and kisses the sick among them, who almost instantly get well, they gasp. A palsied woman laughs and walks straight. A burnt man is healed. It's true. They know it. They saw it. They were there.
But some people know how to have a transcendental religious experience and some don't. Some pray quietly, while others stampede. And that's what happened two days ago on Chestnut Street.
Already, the police and the press tell us to expect more of the same. They blame the weather. They blame the springtime. They blame the heat. But Jonathon won't stop. He rarely sleeps at the town house. Oh, he goes there. He checks on things. It's still his home. But he spends each day in different shelters. Sometimes in the tunnels, with the mole people. Sometimes in the catacomb-like storage rooms under certain museums. He is still on good terms with most of the curators in town. And the mummies, at least those with their internal spirits intact, know him by name.
Yet the media ignores him. Perhaps for the best.
A few of those in attendance, for the preaching, I mean, go not for spiritual benefit, or even the first rate canolis. They go to watch... and observe... and learn. Maxwell's men, they are, alchemists of The Golden Order. Top notch scientists to you and me. They mix nostrums and potions. It's rumored they've captured a cherub and torment that innocent creature with tinctures and concoctions of a most noxious sort.
But Jonathon is careful to avoid the streets, traveling from shelter to shelter via the tunnels and the cellars and the cave-like places down below. Still, spies are everywhere. Maxwell has them. The media has them. So do the police, not to mention various governmental agencies. That's the way it is. Doctor Franklin's offered to help. I think he's trying to do something with his Grand Armonica too.... the lost chord and all that..... an harmonic vibration lost to humanity since the Atlantian deluge and believed necessary for spiritual balance and well being. But so far, Jonathon declines.
And the Black Maria comes out each night, pulled by a matched pair of dove gray Percherons. Most think it's just some tourist thing.... but it's not.
Other vampires, from here in town and distant places too, continue combing the streets. Night crimes disappear, as the Bedlam-like corridors of Old Eastern State Penitentiary fill up. The ghosts torment them mercilessly, the prisoners, I mean. The guards say they scream like banshees.
Shhh, I hear hoofbeats. The lead lined 'cube'... the Black Maria draws near. Some abroad in the wee hours look up. Others draw back to the shadows.
And so the nights pass, as summer comes to the city.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
thank you. for more, hit THIS ... your COMMENTS & LINKS are very important to us.
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