Posts
They began to prepare the townhouse. A grandmother vampire and her eighty or ninety year old mortal grandchildren moved out and into a large, commodious pre-war residence in The Tourraine. Neighbors thought she was the offspring and the old ones her elders. Humans are so easy to confound. But the townhouse was not empty for long. Edith came back to set things right. She knows how Tomas, also known as Jonathon likes things. And the city during winter suits her. Vampires like the cold months. The nights are so long and the bracing temperatures so refreshing.
The elferinos and elferinas are all there. They never left, occupying their usual haunts in unused old, stone outbuildings scattered throughout the venerable, mossy warrens of Laurel Hill Cemetery. And they have other nests too. The space above the ancient filigreed ceiling at The Academy of Music. Not in the theater, but upstairs above the banquet hall. Underground in the ruins of the old Gimbels Department Store, amid the dusty remnants of Santa's Workshop. Elves, indeed, but of a different sort. Well, they await the return of Tomas too.
Familiars (helpful mortals) arrange many things. Rug beaters clean antique Persians. Clock makers quicken an assortment of tick-tocks scattered about the old Revolutionary structure. Even the ghosts are happy. But I should not call them 'ghosts' for I am one of them, a disembodied spirit floating through the narrow, cobbled lanes of this fine, dear, old town. Papa hasn't come back. And to be truthful, I lost track of Annie. Is she dead, or deader than usual? I don't know. But Sarah's on her way. Baylah's coming too.
Edith still wants to do something about the referrer spammers. She confers with witchy-wimmen on both sides of the Atlantic, even practitioners in Moscow. Baba Yaga was a Russian, you know. And they have a bead on a certain young man occupying an apartment on the Nevsky Prospect, the glittering avenue at the heart of St. Petersburg. Haven't been able to reconstitute the oligarch-vampire known as Grigory Usipov. The powerful Chinese entity, called Madam Shang apparently still has him obfuscated between the infinite singularities we term 'reality.' She can do that, you know. It's a hobby of hers.
Edith does all this from the townhouse kitchen, an expansive space tricked out in the requisite wood and granite.... stainless steel what-nots too. She doesn't use any props... no junk.. no doo-dads... no 'throwing of the bones'... (that was sickening). It's all a matter of mind control. We are but particles... collections of singularities suspended in an infinite ether spanning every possible place and every possible time. You've been dead forever and you've lived forever. No big deal. That's just the way it is. Open your eyes and see. Magic is a simple thing, once you know the drill. But that young man in St. Petersburg will have to wait. Mikhail I think he's called. What exquisite tortures lay in wait for him. Everyone dislikes referrer spammers.
But Tomas approaches. I believe he's in the Catskills now, silently drifting through autumn valleys... sublimating when he can... walking when he can't... an eighteen year old traveler upon a public highway. Can't tell you where he sleeps by day. But he is very resourceful. I'm sure that's not a problem. Old forgotten root cellars abound, as well as ancient mines.
Tomas approaches and the being also known as Jonathon has many tales to tell.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
link~> 1,280 EPISODES ... Twitter ~> @wilkravitz ... please leave a COMMENT. thank you.
The elferinos and elferinas are all there. They never left, occupying their usual haunts in unused old, stone outbuildings scattered throughout the venerable, mossy warrens of Laurel Hill Cemetery. And they have other nests too. The space above the ancient filigreed ceiling at The Academy of Music. Not in the theater, but upstairs above the banquet hall. Underground in the ruins of the old Gimbels Department Store, amid the dusty remnants of Santa's Workshop. Elves, indeed, but of a different sort. Well, they await the return of Tomas too.
Familiars (helpful mortals) arrange many things. Rug beaters clean antique Persians. Clock makers quicken an assortment of tick-tocks scattered about the old Revolutionary structure. Even the ghosts are happy. But I should not call them 'ghosts' for I am one of them, a disembodied spirit floating through the narrow, cobbled lanes of this fine, dear, old town. Papa hasn't come back. And to be truthful, I lost track of Annie. Is she dead, or deader than usual? I don't know. But Sarah's on her way. Baylah's coming too.
Edith still wants to do something about the referrer spammers. She confers with witchy-wimmen on both sides of the Atlantic, even practitioners in Moscow. Baba Yaga was a Russian, you know. And they have a bead on a certain young man occupying an apartment on the Nevsky Prospect, the glittering avenue at the heart of St. Petersburg. Haven't been able to reconstitute the oligarch-vampire known as Grigory Usipov. The powerful Chinese entity, called Madam Shang apparently still has him obfuscated between the infinite singularities we term 'reality.' She can do that, you know. It's a hobby of hers.
Edith does all this from the townhouse kitchen, an expansive space tricked out in the requisite wood and granite.... stainless steel what-nots too. She doesn't use any props... no junk.. no doo-dads... no 'throwing of the bones'... (that was sickening). It's all a matter of mind control. We are but particles... collections of singularities suspended in an infinite ether spanning every possible place and every possible time. You've been dead forever and you've lived forever. No big deal. That's just the way it is. Open your eyes and see. Magic is a simple thing, once you know the drill. But that young man in St. Petersburg will have to wait. Mikhail I think he's called. What exquisite tortures lay in wait for him. Everyone dislikes referrer spammers.
But Tomas approaches. I believe he's in the Catskills now, silently drifting through autumn valleys... sublimating when he can... walking when he can't... an eighteen year old traveler upon a public highway. Can't tell you where he sleeps by day. But he is very resourceful. I'm sure that's not a problem. Old forgotten root cellars abound, as well as ancient mines.
Tomas approaches and the being also known as Jonathon has many tales to tell.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
link~> 1,280 EPISODES ... Twitter ~> @wilkravitz ... please leave a COMMENT. thank you.
No comments:
Post a Comment