wilkravitz cannot channel events at the vampire revels this dark-time, for he is ill. That mortal has the chills, plus incipient throat pains. And his belly is gurgling too. They tried to arrange for one of the disembodied spirits to carry the tale, but you know how independent ghosts can be. And the only two they could get on such short notice were either Leon Trotsky or Lizzie Borden. But since they have such low 'Q' ratings (ask an entertainment industry friend)it was decided to forgo our look into THE VAMPIRE REVELS and focus on some other segment of the after dark universe.
We're back in Center City, Philadelphia tonight and Albion has the reigns. You've met this charming Elferino. He's one of a foursome, two girls and two boys, mortals taken on the cusp of puberty, into vampirism, I mean. The pointy ears and slim, vulpine bearing stem from the potent hormones of the young. Some parts of their adolescent bodies (almost) refused to die. Thus the storybook ears.
Such attractive beings they are, like poster children for Gallic waifs.... tousled coiffure.... soulful eyes and fine, trim jaws. But this is not about Marianne, or Roland, or Celeste. This tale dotes on Albion.
He loves winter in the city. Dark, cold nights, frigid cobbles, windswept streets and winking traffic lights. True, certain boites and night spots stay open, but he glides through residential lanes, looking for lonely souls bent in toward icy zephyrs.
Sometimes he gives them a fast vampire's kiss. Just a little. Just a drop. He doesn't take much. The 'elf' folk never do. The instantaneous 'quickness' of it all is hard to detect. A tickle? A stray lock of hair? A noxious, loathsome bug?
And then, if his kissing friend is sick, or weak, he returns to make them well, biting into his own tongue, as he delivers a rapid, mouth smooch. You know how strong and curative their blood can be. Perhaps you've been kissed by one and never knew? Or maybe you do know?
Tonight he stops, down among the bare, February herbage and barren flagstone walkways of Washington Square. No friends there save the ghosts of Revolutionary soldiers planted deep below the winter-dry grass. And he gazes up to the third floor of a quite satisfactory, though post-war, tall, apartment house.
Someone sits out there, alone in the shadows, wrapped in coats and wound in scarves. This someone may have been out there a few nights before. I don't recall. You'll have to understand that I both narrate and star in this midnight ramble and am so easily confused.
So I (Albion) politely bowed. The someone up above never moved. Then I flickered through the ether (bone cold as it was) and came to rest on a cushionless vinyl chair. The good ones are in storage.
The person in the thick, warm (or almost warm) coat said - Are you death?..... I whispered - No, but only his nephew..... The person nodded, saying - Please forgive me, but my hands are so cozy burrowed deep within these pockets. Mittens too, you know. ..... I said - No need to explain.... So we did not shake hands.
And I heard his stories.... of ancient Dilmun and summer nights along the Euphrates.... of drafty garrets in medieval Paris and decomposing heaps of Roman dead (the plague, you know). Our world is his bailiwick. And he studies so hard. Imagine, mistaking me for his master.
Sir Death has squires, you know. He trains them, like Santa Claus trains salami breathed drunks (well, some of them anyway)for the malls. I don't know if the Easter Bunny instructs his helpers. I don't know if they even lay eggs. Though some claim the ability to lay double-yolked, opalescent marvels. Who knows? A biologist I am not.
But the being had a client deep within, an old woman, curled in a bed. She had a flannel nightgown, long and warm and crocheted 'booties on her feet. Her eyes were open. She rarely slept... a few moments here and there, but that was it. And a nurse came by every afternoon to feel her brow and say hello, though few others ever did. The land is quite large. The family quite scattered. You know how it is.
One night, after watching Pat and Vana on a little TV in her kitchen, as she ate a microwaved Perdue Italian Style Chicken Cutlet dinner with tater tots and, oh, I don't know what else, she left a note, written on the back of an old receipt.
That's why Death's acolyte was here. She didn't 'post' it the first time, but now she did. A small, plastic 'brag' book filled with much loved photographs from the old days hid under her pillow, bedtime stories for a sleep that seldom came.
I contemplated making her well. I thought about a blood gift...just a little one...just enough... She'd live and breath and walk and eat.... more than that, I can't vouch for.
But she had people to see and places to go. So I told the being in the coat to have courage and left him to his duties.
Did I see the woman later on my rounds? Was she down in the square or walking the lanes in the dark? To that, I must answer - No, she was not, for that sweet soul was very far away.
I was fourteen when the night-folk came for me. And I have 'lived' through many stories too. Would you like to know what an elferino or elferina endures? Then do a bit of current magic. Google MARIANNE IN BRITCHES by Billy Kravitz. My truth is not so different. My torture no less keen.....
adieu.... Bon nuit ...Albion
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if you'd be willing to help, please nominate me for this~~> Tweet ~~> I nominate @wilkravitz for a SHORTY AWARD as #WRITER based on his stories and narratives
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