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JOHANNON speaks ~~~
I hover in the ether above the townhouse observing pedestrians during the daylight hours. Few come down this way. There are no commercial establishments. Indeed, most of the residences have long been swallowed by shops and bistros facing the other way. The townhouse is but a break in a vast brick wall broken here and there by rather wide sets of green painted metal doors opened only for early morning deliveries. There are two other townhouse facades on the block. One on 'our' side and another across the narrow street. The first belongs to a ninety year old recluse, supposedly the illegitimate offspring of George Burns and Madame Curie. The second shelters a delightfully crazy puppeteer known for corpse-like marionettes made from wooden dowels and bratwurst. Monkey skulls serve for heads. He's very fickle, but Topsy (a dog) doesn't mind, for she 'murders' the rejects.
I can feel the energy. But all disembodied spirits can to that. You'll see. Death will teach you. Occasionally kids cut through, on their way to trendy shops given to zippers and leather and more zippers and more leather, toward South Street. Sometimes they run through after the clubs, heading for Jim's Steaks (sandwiches), or some other savory mouthful. I see their auras. I know their souls. The daytime wanderers are different... quiet, homeless types drifting about.... nervous, part time, lovers speeding toward clandestine assignations. They keep their auras close.
'Ghosts' (I hate that word, but use it for expedience sake) are made of energy. Mortals are too. What you feel as solid surface is but an electrical field spanning neurons and protons and whatever other particles they discover. Even the nuclear particles are bit denser manifestations of the same elusive sparks. Some say we are self-aware dreams. But they, themselves are only dreamers.
Certain personalities are sculptors. Not of wood, clay, or stone, but reality. They manipulate the ether and all that dances in it. Of such is magic. Everything is everywhere. Yet only some can see that and even fewer can touch it. They that can are magicians. And their like have walked among us since the beginning.
I've been dead, or 'in the spirit' as we say for more than nine hundred years. I follow Jonathon and protect him. When he was 'alive' I did the same. But sometimes I drift and taste other things. Let me share a bit.....
There was an artisan's daughter in Toulouse. Her father, a lapidary fashioned decorative clasps and cloak pins for the wives of powerful land owners, made with the finest jade and cinnabar brought from far off Cathay, Serendip and Abyssinia. The daughter lived with him in a stout stone cottage, hard by the town wall. Theirs was a fine establishment with sleeping cubicles above and a proper hall below... even an atelier. Thick, warm woolens from Norman-held Britain stopped drafts and carpets flown up (or so they said) from various Iberian sultanates and principalities softened floors. There were carved, wooden chests and wide, cushioned benches from cantons in The Alps. They had meat most every night and soap from The Eastern Roman Empire. The daughter wore costly attire, but like others of her caste was forbidden certain headdresses flaunted by high-born noble ladies. And the same chevaliers (knights) who bowed low to aristocratic damsels on the streets, or in the marketplace, appraised the lapidary's daughter and others of similar estate like heifers. Her only recourse after ordeals like that came from beating the kitchen girl or berating the housekeeper. Everyone needs to vent.
One day there was a festival, just prior to the Christmas Market. Magnates' daughters, accompanied by nurses and attendants sailed through stalls like royal galleys, snatching up all manner of luxury before females of lesser birth, whether moneyed or not, had a chance. Most took it philosophically. According to their culture, position is God ordained. Resistance is futile. And they made do with somewhat coarser fare.
But the lapidary's daughter was proud and would not bend. She reached for a cunning, little, pot of balm, only to have her hand soundly rapped by a spoiled fil de comte up from the Occitan.. The merchant shouted - Be off, cow! See you not this noble lady!?..... And the girl in question eyed her contemptuously. Market guards grabbed the lapidary's daughter and threw her in the mud. Had she been less than that, they'd have publicly bared her nether regions and beaten her buttocks raw. Such was life in that place, among those people at that time.
Now remember, magicians are they who manipulate energy and matter.... a talent open to all, regardless of caste. And the lapidary's daughter moved dust motes in the sun and flower petals 'cross a table. She knew she could do that. The housekeeper, possessed of a few spells (why do you think the lapidary's wife died so young?) questioned her and told a wise woman of the town. But the daughter would have none of it for fear of the Church. Fire is a wonderful deterrent.
Though that day, in the market, she let loose, spewing forth every foul word she knew. The aristocrats just laughed. A hateful, little toady of a merchant dumped a bucket of slop over her head. All waited for the next pathetic barrage. But the lapidary's daughter grew quiet and still. Then she looked up under hooded brows, locking eyes with the offending maiden, who froze on the spot. Witnesses backed away, as the ground began to vibrate and hum. Perhaps four heartbeats later, the mud began to bubble and pop, as all manner of loathsome, crawling thing escaped from the noxious fecal mess, rising into the air before swirling into a maelstrom, the nexus of which positioned itself just above the young lady's opened mouth. For an instant all was still. Then the horrific, miniature whirlwind narrowed, till every last crawling monstrosity zipped through her lips and down to her belly.
For a moment she seemed startled, til she began to spin, fast as a top. Her skirts flew out, mimicking the as yet undiscovered rings of Saturn, as the insects and worms began to manically feast on all parts of her body from the inside out. Those too close were bathed in a gruesome spray. When it was over, they found the bones screwed deep into the ground. Her attendants were nowhere to be seen and no one claimed the remains.
Of such is magic. Of such is enchantment.
They who we call 'vampires' bear but one manifestation.
And Jonathon soon returns to their number.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
click MAGIC to view all Vampire Wonderland episodes.
click ENCHANTMENT to join me and a lot of other interesting and talented people on these Twitter timelines around here.
please COMMENT. thank you.
I hover in the ether above the townhouse observing pedestrians during the daylight hours. Few come down this way. There are no commercial establishments. Indeed, most of the residences have long been swallowed by shops and bistros facing the other way. The townhouse is but a break in a vast brick wall broken here and there by rather wide sets of green painted metal doors opened only for early morning deliveries. There are two other townhouse facades on the block. One on 'our' side and another across the narrow street. The first belongs to a ninety year old recluse, supposedly the illegitimate offspring of George Burns and Madame Curie. The second shelters a delightfully crazy puppeteer known for corpse-like marionettes made from wooden dowels and bratwurst. Monkey skulls serve for heads. He's very fickle, but Topsy (a dog) doesn't mind, for she 'murders' the rejects.
I can feel the energy. But all disembodied spirits can to that. You'll see. Death will teach you. Occasionally kids cut through, on their way to trendy shops given to zippers and leather and more zippers and more leather, toward South Street. Sometimes they run through after the clubs, heading for Jim's Steaks (sandwiches), or some other savory mouthful. I see their auras. I know their souls. The daytime wanderers are different... quiet, homeless types drifting about.... nervous, part time, lovers speeding toward clandestine assignations. They keep their auras close.
'Ghosts' (I hate that word, but use it for expedience sake) are made of energy. Mortals are too. What you feel as solid surface is but an electrical field spanning neurons and protons and whatever other particles they discover. Even the nuclear particles are bit denser manifestations of the same elusive sparks. Some say we are self-aware dreams. But they, themselves are only dreamers.
Certain personalities are sculptors. Not of wood, clay, or stone, but reality. They manipulate the ether and all that dances in it. Of such is magic. Everything is everywhere. Yet only some can see that and even fewer can touch it. They that can are magicians. And their like have walked among us since the beginning.
I've been dead, or 'in the spirit' as we say for more than nine hundred years. I follow Jonathon and protect him. When he was 'alive' I did the same. But sometimes I drift and taste other things. Let me share a bit.....
There was an artisan's daughter in Toulouse. Her father, a lapidary fashioned decorative clasps and cloak pins for the wives of powerful land owners, made with the finest jade and cinnabar brought from far off Cathay, Serendip and Abyssinia. The daughter lived with him in a stout stone cottage, hard by the town wall. Theirs was a fine establishment with sleeping cubicles above and a proper hall below... even an atelier. Thick, warm woolens from Norman-held Britain stopped drafts and carpets flown up (or so they said) from various Iberian sultanates and principalities softened floors. There were carved, wooden chests and wide, cushioned benches from cantons in The Alps. They had meat most every night and soap from The Eastern Roman Empire. The daughter wore costly attire, but like others of her caste was forbidden certain headdresses flaunted by high-born noble ladies. And the same chevaliers (knights) who bowed low to aristocratic damsels on the streets, or in the marketplace, appraised the lapidary's daughter and others of similar estate like heifers. Her only recourse after ordeals like that came from beating the kitchen girl or berating the housekeeper. Everyone needs to vent.
One day there was a festival, just prior to the Christmas Market. Magnates' daughters, accompanied by nurses and attendants sailed through stalls like royal galleys, snatching up all manner of luxury before females of lesser birth, whether moneyed or not, had a chance. Most took it philosophically. According to their culture, position is God ordained. Resistance is futile. And they made do with somewhat coarser fare.
But the lapidary's daughter was proud and would not bend. She reached for a cunning, little, pot of balm, only to have her hand soundly rapped by a spoiled fil de comte up from the Occitan.. The merchant shouted - Be off, cow! See you not this noble lady!?..... And the girl in question eyed her contemptuously. Market guards grabbed the lapidary's daughter and threw her in the mud. Had she been less than that, they'd have publicly bared her nether regions and beaten her buttocks raw. Such was life in that place, among those people at that time.
Now remember, magicians are they who manipulate energy and matter.... a talent open to all, regardless of caste. And the lapidary's daughter moved dust motes in the sun and flower petals 'cross a table. She knew she could do that. The housekeeper, possessed of a few spells (why do you think the lapidary's wife died so young?) questioned her and told a wise woman of the town. But the daughter would have none of it for fear of the Church. Fire is a wonderful deterrent.
Though that day, in the market, she let loose, spewing forth every foul word she knew. The aristocrats just laughed. A hateful, little toady of a merchant dumped a bucket of slop over her head. All waited for the next pathetic barrage. But the lapidary's daughter grew quiet and still. Then she looked up under hooded brows, locking eyes with the offending maiden, who froze on the spot. Witnesses backed away, as the ground began to vibrate and hum. Perhaps four heartbeats later, the mud began to bubble and pop, as all manner of loathsome, crawling thing escaped from the noxious fecal mess, rising into the air before swirling into a maelstrom, the nexus of which positioned itself just above the young lady's opened mouth. For an instant all was still. Then the horrific, miniature whirlwind narrowed, till every last crawling monstrosity zipped through her lips and down to her belly.
For a moment she seemed startled, til she began to spin, fast as a top. Her skirts flew out, mimicking the as yet undiscovered rings of Saturn, as the insects and worms began to manically feast on all parts of her body from the inside out. Those too close were bathed in a gruesome spray. When it was over, they found the bones screwed deep into the ground. Her attendants were nowhere to be seen and no one claimed the remains.
Of such is magic. Of such is enchantment.
They who we call 'vampires' bear but one manifestation.
And Jonathon soon returns to their number.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
click MAGIC to view all Vampire Wonderland episodes.
click ENCHANTMENT to join me and a lot of other interesting and talented people on these Twitter timelines around here.
please COMMENT. thank you.
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