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The two vampirini drifted through various parts of creation for a while. Tomas listened, as 'Papa' shared judgments and insights. He decried the lack of variety in galactic living spaces, for every world was round, or more precisely an orb. I suppose the occasional potato shaped asteroid doesn't count, since naught but errant microbes ever live on them. And the old, old soul was much taken with suns. He loves them in fact. Something to do with their horrific glory when seen up close. In the past, he's been known to banish bothersome night-folk to stellar corona, there to drift suspended above the huge and terrible roiling surface, protected by a 'bubble' of his own creation. Odd they don't immediately ignite from all that 'daylight,' but they don't. Perhaps because minus the refractive qualities of an atmosphere it isn't truly daylight, but just illumination? Yet another point in favor of a Divine Helmsman, for in a purely scientific and mathematical universe they should burn.
Imagine, from Cro Magnon hunting shaman to the erudite critic of creation he is today. In an infinite universe all things really are possible.
Tomas said he smelled shit. But 'Papa' assured him it was only methane wafting out from inhabited worlds. Not necessarily indicative of intelligence, but merely a sign of expert defecators (such as pig and cows).
Then it was time to go home. No reason. It just was. 'Papa' sighed and the thick, milky, white, almost opaque mist came back again, manifesting in equal proportion from every point in creation. Tomas felt his body grow heavy, as billions of microscopic 'functionaries' hurried to conjure and weave suitable garments about his naked form. And they did it all of a piece... underwear... outer wear... inside and out, til he was attired in full Highland regalia. 'Papa,' on the other hand, sported something from The Gap, a windbreaker, jeans, polo shirt and sweater. You know the drill. Exactly thirty four heartbeats later they found themselves sitting on a bench by the little bronze goat in the middle of Rittenhouse Square Park. The mist was gone. The evening sky clear and sparkly. Few ordinary humans were about due to the cold. So they sat there collecting their thoughts. Tomas pondered his brush with destruction, looked into they eyes of his vampiric progenitor and said 'Thank you.'... 'Papa' waved him of with a casual gesture. Scroll back a few nights. You'll see what it was. Then they got up and walked back to the townhouse. On the way, 'Papa' promised he'd visit more often. And a visit from him might mean anything from full fledged familial involvement, to catatonic episodes on a chair by the fire. That's just the way he was. But Tomas, his more or less 'son' was used to it and the other night-folk there about were too.
When they got there, Baylah, also an infrequent visitor, was waiting. She, like Tomas, is a very spiritual sort and needs 'deep meaningful' interaction with mortals from time to time. And ,no, what she does with her rich, human, bed partner doesn't count.
Baylah had pamphlets all about a convention in Atlantic City called 'Horror A.C.' or something like that... a symposium for lovers of enchantment and things that go bump in the night. Had a link and everything. BizarreAC.com ... I think it was. Very real. Not at all fiction. This isn't that, as those of you who visit regularly know. She wants to attend... rent a table and everything... give 'em 'swag' pose for pictures... give advice... lecture on El Mundo Vampido and all.
So Edith bustled about lighting small, apple scented aroma candles (a vampire favorite), as the exotic threesome discussed the rightness (or wrongness) of it.
But our Beyonce look-alike had already made up her mind.
And the Great Arc of The Heavens advanced over head, as the city slept, while deep within the cobbled streets of Society Hill three night-folk, snug in the townhouse, drank their tea.
(more next time)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
link~> LOTS MORE TO EXPLORE AND READ ..
link~>TWITTER..
please leave your much valued COMMENTS.
thank you.
Imagine, from Cro Magnon hunting shaman to the erudite critic of creation he is today. In an infinite universe all things really are possible.
Tomas said he smelled shit. But 'Papa' assured him it was only methane wafting out from inhabited worlds. Not necessarily indicative of intelligence, but merely a sign of expert defecators (such as pig and cows).
Then it was time to go home. No reason. It just was. 'Papa' sighed and the thick, milky, white, almost opaque mist came back again, manifesting in equal proportion from every point in creation. Tomas felt his body grow heavy, as billions of microscopic 'functionaries' hurried to conjure and weave suitable garments about his naked form. And they did it all of a piece... underwear... outer wear... inside and out, til he was attired in full Highland regalia. 'Papa,' on the other hand, sported something from The Gap, a windbreaker, jeans, polo shirt and sweater. You know the drill. Exactly thirty four heartbeats later they found themselves sitting on a bench by the little bronze goat in the middle of Rittenhouse Square Park. The mist was gone. The evening sky clear and sparkly. Few ordinary humans were about due to the cold. So they sat there collecting their thoughts. Tomas pondered his brush with destruction, looked into they eyes of his vampiric progenitor and said 'Thank you.'... 'Papa' waved him of with a casual gesture. Scroll back a few nights. You'll see what it was. Then they got up and walked back to the townhouse. On the way, 'Papa' promised he'd visit more often. And a visit from him might mean anything from full fledged familial involvement, to catatonic episodes on a chair by the fire. That's just the way he was. But Tomas, his more or less 'son' was used to it and the other night-folk there about were too.
When they got there, Baylah, also an infrequent visitor, was waiting. She, like Tomas, is a very spiritual sort and needs 'deep meaningful' interaction with mortals from time to time. And ,no, what she does with her rich, human, bed partner doesn't count.
Baylah had pamphlets all about a convention in Atlantic City called 'Horror A.C.' or something like that... a symposium for lovers of enchantment and things that go bump in the night. Had a link and everything. BizarreAC.com ... I think it was. Very real. Not at all fiction. This isn't that, as those of you who visit regularly know. She wants to attend... rent a table and everything... give 'em 'swag' pose for pictures... give advice... lecture on El Mundo Vampido and all.
So Edith bustled about lighting small, apple scented aroma candles (a vampire favorite), as the exotic threesome discussed the rightness (or wrongness) of it.
But our Beyonce look-alike had already made up her mind.
And the Great Arc of The Heavens advanced over head, as the city slept, while deep within the cobbled streets of Society Hill three night-folk, snug in the townhouse, drank their tea.
(more next time)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
link~> LOTS MORE TO EXPLORE AND READ ..
link~>TWITTER..
please leave your much valued COMMENTS.
thank you.
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