Sunday, May 31, 2015


Jonathon couldn't sleep. Mortals think might-folk effortlessly fall into death-like states, but they don't. Well, some do, though not cerebral, introspective life-eaters like Jonathon. They set him up in a little office by the kitchen. It had the smallest window, so it was easy to seal it up with duct tape and an old oil cloth. Baylah had a bed in a walk-in closet... really more of a boudoir... snug and opulent, just like a genii in a bottle.... provided the bottle was upholstered, like the one they had on television.

He thought about the old woman and what she said. Lucid Wanderers were always so mysterious. Worse than vampires. Imagine maintaining your identity through countless lifetimes. Different faces, races and places, but always you... like a student forever observing humanity. Not that they don't have any input. They do. But no one era means that much to them. Lucid Wanderers see a much bigger picture. What was her name, Boo-Nah-Kay-Lah, or whatever it was. Jonathon wondered where she slept, or even if she had to. He heard the daytime noises. Baylah's boyfriend got up to run on the beach. The housekeeper puttered 'round the kitchen. Baylah meet with her special boutique representatives. She'd have them come up to her closet, really like a boutique in its own right. They'd chat, discuss trends, drink champagne and gossip. She'd place orders, maybe buy a few samples on the spot. The closet was a big 'L' shaped affair. Quite easy to hide from the daylight when the door was opened. Artificial light didn't matter. Seven hours was enough. Vampires don't have to sleep til dusk, just avoid the light.

Jonathon wondered who he'd kill. Probably some recalcitrant industrialist. Look what they've already done.... Pacific atolls drowned like Atlantis. Bangladesh is next, you know. Lot they care. Cart the bastards out. Poor folks don't matter, especially exotic ones. Still, he'd taken vows... only cull those sent to him in 'visions.' You regulars know about the vows, right? Keeps it all legal. Makes it all moral.... Who knows?

Another one's supposed to come by. The old woman said.... a male... a vampire... a strange one. Been a long time since he'd met any new life-eaters. They get that way, vampires, I mean... snug in their own little world.... like spiders... each on a web, or deep in a dark, dark hole.

He listened. Baylah was watching The View. Sharon Osbourne's voice... he knew the voice. Two o'clock... it must be two o'clock.... six and a half, maybe seven hours til nightfall..... He got up and put away the sofa bed. He turned on a lamp. There was a laptop... a new one... on a desk. Jonathon only knew the basics. He could google things and (maybe) manage a tweet or two. Had an account. Not his name, a 'familiars.' But he did have a cell phone and he called a guy... another familiar... asked for a laptop... his own laptop, all set up for internet gambling. He could manage the games once it was all set up. Forty five minutes later they delivered it. The housekeeper brought it in. She knew the drill. Knocked seven times. Jonathon went in the closet. She entered, put down the new laptop and left. He came out and gambled. It had ten thousand dollars on it... enough to keep him happy for a few hours......

Tonight he'd kill someone. Boo-Kah-Lay-Na, or whoever she was had it all planned.

An all powerful plutocrat would die... no body... no credit... real clean... real easy.... Now you see him... Now you don't..

Vampires are good at that...

Ooh, look. Five aces... Jonathon likes to win.... So does the old woman...


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Saturday, May 30, 2015

Billy Kravitz' vampire wonderland: These are the days of EL RANCHO TEXACO ..... Revel...

Billy Kravitz' vampire wonderland: These are the days of EL RANCHO TEXACO ..... Revel...: And then a certain heavy warmth penetrated the chamber. Whether from the intoxicating vapor, or some other source was difficult to tell. The... Good place to start scrolling around... War hits Mars... local forces... Earth forces ... Chinese forces... The old, altered 'human' natives... the Tuva Tuva people retreat to ancient sanctuaries and rituals... Please be a part of it.. Look around. Click on EL RANCHO TEXACO up above to enter. A long story arc you might enjoy... Like HOW THE WEST WAS WON on Mars. Follow the adventures of the land baron TEXACO family.

If you're willing, tell others.

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Wednesday, May 27, 2015


Jonathon inched his chair closer to the strange old woman.  He studied her, as she gazed at the stars and they sat that way for perhaps thirty six heartbeats. Then she said - My name is Boo-Ka-Lay-Nah and I have something to tell you.

Jonathon nodded.

Boo-Ka-Lay-Nah - I see many things... many, many, many things. This body is mortal, but I am not. I have never been dead. As soon as a 'vessel' dies, I am reborn... and even as a child my pronouncements are very precocious. Boo-Ka-Lay-Nah was in Ur of the Chaldees and Sumer. Boo-Kah-Lay-Nah was in Jericho...and civic amalgamations far in advance of that place too. I saw ice bear down on the land and touched frozen cliff faces two miles high... far higher than the clouds.

Jonathon - You're a Lucid Wanderer. I get it. What is it you want to tell me? 

Boo-Kah-Lay-Nah - Millions will perish... Possibly billions. The Great Southern Fundiment ... The Great Southern Ice sheet dies. This is not a gradual eradication. Warm sea water invades from below. The ice begins to slide, gaining speed every day. And when it goes there shall be such a wave as humans have never seen. Cities will drown. Seacoasts will crumble, as Avalons by the thousands sink beneath the oceans.

Jonathon - Why tell me?

Boo-Kah-Lay-Nah - Don't flatter yourself, life-eater. I tell not only you, but others like you the world over. It is time to turn the tide, so to speak. It is time to 'neutralize' those who stand in our way.

Jonathon - And who would they be?

Boo-Kah-Lay-Nah - Nay sayers. Those who drown in gold. Those who stoke the flames. Those who kill the earth.

Jonathon - You mean business interests?... Certain business interests?

Boo-Kah-Lay-Nah - Nods. I mean cruel, contemptuous fools.

And then she studies the sea. Jonathon does too. How beautiful it looks under the silver moon.

Our spiritual seeker... our reverent vampire has found a purpose...

<more next time>


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Tuesday, May 26, 2015

Billy Kravitz' vampire wonderland: KADEEMA AND LORENZO.. an ancillary vampire tale.. 5/27/15

Billy Kravitz' vampire wonderland: KADEEMA AND LORENZO: Not all of Europe is thickly populated. There are isolated empty stretches. The coasts and major river valleys hold all the people. The moun..

Please take a look at this old post from years ago. Click on KADEEMA & LORENZO up above.. Not all vampires are 'noble.'... Some are very different. And an added fact... On this date in the year 1897, one hundred and eighteen years ago, the novel DRACULA by Bram Stoker first appeared... Jonathon, also known as Tomas, never liked it, but that's beside the point.

Please read about LORENZO and if you like, scroll up to read about KADEEMA.

Good night.


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Memorial Day has become, in a sense, America's answer to Mexico's Day Of The Dead. They remember martyrs of war and battle with savory feasts and beachy stuff. I know. I saw first hand. 

Baylah and her wealthy, mortal paramour had me down to their sumptuous retreat at the Jersey Shore. We go from time to time. It's only a ninety minute ride from Center City, pending traffic and all... Even less if I sublimate. It's not as if I have to pack. Local banks know me. My debit card's good there. And I like the feel of cool, pine air through my body. Sublimation is one of the best parts about being a vampire... That and near immortality. 

We had a dinner... a late night party. The only two vampires in attendance were Baylah and I. Sarah stayed in the city ordering books for Philadelphia After Dark and reviewing galleys. She loves that shop. Picks out the down, upholstered chintz chairs. Decides which one goes in what nook or corner. Chooses all the cozy pin-up lamps. Arranges the old fashioned shop window. She's known for her marketing, or rather the mortal girl who fronts for her is. She'll come down next time.

The house has a roof top terrace. It's not directly on the beach, but only two houses away... The boyfriend's afraid of storms. But from up there the view is breath taking... even at night... maybe more so.... silvery moonlight on the calm, dark surf. When they put the lights out, uninitiated guests are scared. I can tell... So many stars and each an unimaginably vast, monstrous inferno. For us, vampires I mean, they're the only 'suns' we can see. Distance matters.

The mortals had steak and ribs seared on rough stone braziers. We had chilled vodka. Baylah knew them all... 'familiars' there were. I knew some too.

For a town its size, strange things happen in Atlantic City.... And please know we were not 'in' Atlantic City, but one of the carriage trade towns to the south. Do they still use that term?... 'Carriage trade,' I mean. (he smiles) Vampires so easily lapse into archaic speech.

There was a woman there... and she was not a familiar, although she was quite at ease with night-folk. I could tell. She was old, or appeared old. Her hair was long and white... loose, not at all how you'd expect one of her age to wear it. Baylah wanted me to meet her. Later, when the others left, she remained on the terrace... 

And so did I.... 

How white she looked in the moonlight... Like an ethereal being. But the veins on her hands were real.

She nodded... and I moved closer.


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Sunday, May 24, 2015


For weeks this record has been in disarray. Voices and entities barge in, desperate to be heard. Do you know why they show up at this time? They do it because I am distracted. Last night was the Pentecost... and although I am 'burdened'.... although I am what many call 'vampire' I still believe with a most perfect faith. You've seen me hole up in my little chapel listening to cantorial after cantorial. I tremble. I whisper prayers. The eyes roll back in my head. And I am fulfilled... I am renewed. 

This is the Anniversary of The Revelation... the Sacred Morn when God called ALL. He did not speak to one, or small bands. He did not say - I will tell you and you tell others. He called every soul who at any point in history would believe to the Convocation At Sinai. Some recall every particle of The Experience. Others slowly forget. Some later remember and are what many might call 'converts,' but they are not that, for they were present at the beginning.... And so was I.

It is taught (and I have said this before) that The Exodus is a Betrothal and The Pentecost (Shevuot) is a Marriage. If you pay attention to the actual words, it sounds like a marriage ceremony... and the Ketubah (the writing)... the marriage contract that binds us everlasting is The Torah (The Bible). 

And these vows are renewed every year at this time, to keep the vows always fresh.... I love this day... We all 'heard' and we all said 'yes.'

Here's a little aside... You want to know why the dietary laws (kosher) are part of this? So that we should know this 'flesh' was called into existence by God. Although we may eat many creatures, we must be grateful and respect each and every one.... even those we do not eat.

Strange, that I, a vampire all these years, tell you such things. But I've been a believer even longer.  And I am not a penny dreadful night fiend. I am nothing like that. That's fiction. That's different. I am not merely an entertainment. I have a purpose... as we all do. 

You know yours. Even if you think you don't, you do. Sit quietly and think. You'll know. And even if your Pentecostal Observance differs from ours, who cares... We are all neighbors... There are no strangers... for we were strangers in Egypt and we learned that lesson well.

Love they neighbor as thyself.... It's been said that thus is the Faith, the rest is but commentary.

Please forgive me these moments. But vampires feel things deeply... more viscerally than you can know. ... When I cull the wicked, I do so in awe and reverence... Never doubt that..... Sometimes we fashion stories for your amusement. Sometimes we do that. But it's not real. It's not who we are.

Billy does a good job. He records everything for us. Sometimes he veers off, fashioning tales of his own. But all in all, he does well.

I am Jonathon ben Macabi... also known as Tomas de Macabea... and I appreciate this chance to address you.

Permit me my, nightly constitutional. Dawn comes early this time of year and I savor each and every moment under the stars. 

If you see me, please nod. I'll know it's you and I'll nod back.

< He exist the townhouse, locks the door, rounds the corner and disappears.>


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I tried to google power lunch spots near the Comcast Building (the first one) in Philadelphia. Site said '402 quality restaurants in the vicinity... Then it gave blurbs and crap about each one. Who needs that shit? I could use a phone book. So I went back and tried again... Googled... well, I don't remember what I googled, but I googled a lot. Still no luck. They don't want people to find out. Who needs 'nobodies?' Let them spend their money in some over priced chain joint looking at tourists... the women from North Jersey with their inside-out designer bags. Inside-out... they actually do that. Linings are harder to counterfeit. Thing is, if you're used to top shelf bags you don't care what other people think, because you know. 

And I'm not looking for 'the suits.' I want creative types. God knows where they keep them. Oh, who am I kidding? I'm watching a rerun of SNL as I type this. They got George Ezra on now, singing about his house in Budapest... Yeah, like he even ever ate goulosh..... Bet he had an 'in.' Wonder how he got famous. If you google him, you might find a bit about some music executive who heard his material ... and the rest is history...But they NEVER tell us HOW he got his junk into the HANDS of that executive... Always - My first big break was a topical movie on Lifetime... Never how he got the security guards to stop throwing him down the steps, 'cause that, in itself is an achievement. (give me a few minutes for cookies)...

You know what?...Play smart. The first thing you have to do is get them to look at you. I mean physically LOOK at you. And NEWS FLASH---- they got female executives too. So get a haircut... Lose ten pounds... Go to Marshalls... It's a dog show... Everything's a dog show. People are superficial, especially 'media' people. Come on... You think Walter Kronkeit (or however he spelled it) would make it today? Even directors gotta look good, or at least have a 'good' look.

Then you need product. You need something to sell... a script... a demo reel.. a short film. Artists gotta make art. Being 'available' to make art won't cut it. You need that can of soup and it better be unique, because they already got cans on the shelf... known brands... easily to sell brands. 

So there is 'work' involved. You CAN do a first draft in a month... thirty days... three or four pages a day... BINGO! You got a script. Is it 'done?'... No, you have to polish it up... sharpen the conflict... Who ( or what) do we hate and why do we hate them?... You got to work on the dialog. Make it simple. Make it natural. You got to make the resolution satisfying. If you devote two or three hours every day to this task, expect a finished script in three months. Experienced pros sometimes knock one out in two weeks, but they've been at it a while. Another thing... Google correct script format. Make sure it looks right. Make sure it's presented properly. Arrange for digital copies and hard copies. They sell soft ware for that. It's helpful, though you can get by without it.

And wherever you are, there must be a college, preferably with a film group. Hang with them. Volunteer for them. 'Live' with them. If you're older, don't worry. If you can, take a course. Sit up front. Take part.

Look, this is all common sense and no, this isn't my regular blog post. I just wanted to share a little... start a discussion... get things moving. 

I'm 'all over the place.' I know that. But I'm disoriented too. Thought I'd be at the shore this weekend. (I mean I REALLY thought I'd be at the shore this weekend), but then family and household stuff came up. I'm not at the shore. I'm here, in the city. (How'd THIS happen??!!) I'm babysitting a 91 year old who thinks he can light a modern gas stove with a match. Makes life interesting (disgusting, stressful, but 'interesting') and I've been told to get cancer and die enough times to get me into the Guiness Book of World's Records.

Later tonight, I'll have a real post.... If I don't have a cerebral hemorrhage, or if I have it AFTER I post.

Have a meaningful MEMORIAL DAY WEEKEND. Weather's certainly right for it... around here anyway...

God, I need grilled food.


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Wednesday, May 20, 2015


I had the book for years, ever since kindergarten or first grade. My uncle was an auctioneer. Sometimes he'd liquidate toy stores. Philadelphia had a lot of toy stores back then, unique, little shops, tucked away in snug commercial districts with brick sidewalks. They don't make them like that anymore. Toys are mostly gone now. Even toddlers have video games. 

I'd get a big box from each one. There'd be board games and toy soldiers... even knights. Once I got a radio controlled bus... pretty big bus too... silvery blue metal with blue tinted windows. My dad said - Put it away so you don't break it. Went up on a shelf in the basement. Think I played with it maybe two times. 

But that same box had a book... an old first edition of poems... children's poems... Robert Louis Stevenson's A CHILD'S GARDEN OF VERSES. There were old, intricate engravings... lamplighters... bucolic farms... cozy bedrooms. Even had some handwritten notes from the author... little asides, explaining what each poem meant. I liked that book and constantly browsed through the pictures. To me, it was a fancy coloring book, though I never colored any of the pictures.  Thank God, they wouldn't let me. Still looks new, or as new as it was when I got it. 

The man at the Philadelphia Print and Book Shop liked it. He was impressed. I could tell. Said something about the quality of the green grosgrain and the neatness of the script. He meant the handwritten script. Couldn't say for sure if it was Robert Louis Stevenson's writing or not, but thought it was. They have a file... samples of script from thousands of famous people. I never knew that. Mary Shelley was an artist... a real calligrapher. Billy The Kid wrote like a baby. They even have samples of Kardashian handwrittinng in there. 

Based on its authenticity, the book, my book, in its present condition (very good) is worth at least sixty five to one hundred thousand dollars at auction, when compared to similar specimens..... Well, that book could be live changing and I don't mean in a literary sense.... Tomorrow it goes on the block. Mr. Jessup, the man at the auction house, wants me to wait til the fall. Books do better then. Says he always handles sales for them and his record speaks for it self. But the thing is, I need the money.

I'm not safe in my house anymore. Bricks still the same. Shady oak trees by the curb still the same, yet everything's different. Realtors have a term. They say 'it's tipping.'... More burglaries and all. Actually, what we got going is a regular burglary festival. My neighborhood must be like a school where they train people for the trade. Every other house on the block has a story... multiple stories... a whole soap opera of vandalism and theft. I'll tell you about my experiences, but it's a nice day here... seventy degrees and partly sunny... friendly clouds. I want to go out and pretend it's all OK....

I need that.

And I'm not Billy, or any of the other characters you already know from this site. And WHAT IS 'this site?' Why do I have these ideas? To me, it just feels like my life. Things happen and I think about them. If that makes others privy to my thoughts, I'll live with it.

Don't know what I'll do til fall though. I gotta get out of this place. Look, most families are alright. But the bad guys are everywhere... shootings in supermarket parking lots... Nobody cares. They don't even notice anymore. People hear low-lifes literally ransacking a neighbor's house (remember, these are row houses) and do nothing. Later, when the cops come and everybody stands around outside, sucking their teeth with their arms crossed and playing like they're concerned, some dumb like a fox bastard comes forward and says - We heard the noise and figured they was 'fixin' up' or sumpin... Yeah, at two thirty in the morning. ... They 'knew.' ...Of course 'they' knew. That's just how it is.

Tomorrow, I'm going 'in town.' Around here (Philadelphia) that means Center City... I'm gonna walk around like a civilized person. Maybe go through a museum. I think they breed museums here. Being stationary structures they must do it via pollen, like the trees. I can't see another way. I'll have coffee in some nice Starbucks, maybe buy a new pair of 'on sale' sneakers and look around. You can see a lot 'in town.' ... financial types in the money zone... hipsters 'round the Old City galleries... entertainment types by Comcast City. God, when I just THINK about the 'gatekeepers' looking down from those towers....

Let me google where they go for lunch....

<more next time>


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Tuesday, May 19, 2015


If a tree falls in the forest and nothing with ears is anywhere around, did it still make a noise? Who the hell cares? The tree still knows it's dead, or that it's gonna soon BE dead. And isn't that the important thing?....

Same with terrified old lady in remote, Piney cabin. She can scream, or make like a shrill, choking sound. But who's she gonna impress? So she looks up at the dried wood of that old coffin looming over the side of her bed and moans. It's dark. She's alone. She can barely see. Maybe it's a dream? Who knows? She one time had a dream that little mushroom people (like from Fantasia) were shuffling 'round her room. At first they were cute. She said - Awww... Then they lifted their heads and looked up, revealing lobster faces. Look in that tank next time you go to the supermarket. Lobsters have horrible faces.... tiny little repulsive claws passing food toward a mouth that's basically a sphincter. Can you imagine being in HONEY I SHRUNK THE KIDS and fighting against the suction from one a them? You'd just die... You'd just die...and be glad you did, 'fore a little claw nips off a leg, or an ass-cheek or a wee-wee. I guess the little claws are like the beak and the actual mouth is just a primitive pie-hole.

Only this wasn't a dream, 'cause when old lady mumbles - I'm dreaming. Please, God, let me be dreaming...... A weak, hoarse voice from inside the coffin says - No, you ain't... as the foot end of the dead box pivots up to the level of her bed. She backs up against the wall, for her resting place was in a corner and save for the right side and the foot end offered no escape.

Soon she was pinned against the wall, but then the coffin backed off a little, sliding across the old, laundered sheet til there was room for the lid to swing open. That's when she saw the grinning, desiccated corpse. Cadaverous arms reached out to embrace her. She whimpered - no.. no... no. But the coffin squeezed in til she couldn't move at all, pressing her against the brittle, crumbling bones.

Then the lid snapped shut.

Later, after daybreak, an escaped, homicidal killer broke into the cabin, planning to slaughter the old lady... But she was nowhere to be seen. Save for a stale, coarse, dry, powdery stink, all was as it should be  and he made do  with an old golden thimble and two gold crowns. Must have happened when it snatched her...

God knows where that coffin is now. Some say they go back to old graveyards...

Can't tell you how long it took for the poor lady to die. That, I do not know..

Pines shares SOME secrets, but not all...

Who the desiccated corpse was, I also don't know.

Now it's 3:20AMedt and I gotta stop... And I'm quite aware of that scraping noise from the basement, but I just choose to ignore it...


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Saturday, May 16, 2015


Billy Kravitz' vampire wonderland: A VAMPIRE ROMANCE IN OLD TARANTO OR POSSIBLY BARI: The cozy, little bistro closed for the night and so the vampires returned to the street. It was two in the morning. The city was quiet. Som...

Quite difficult it is to blog with a ninety one year old and three months uncle in the house. He thinks computers are only for finding sales at supermarkets. Even the say-hello-to old-friends-and-cousins of FaceBook seems a disgraceful waste to him. He bends over me (nose dripping all the time) looking at weird-crazy-idiot nonsense he can't possibly understand...

It's very hard to blog under conditions like that. I don't know how those 'mommy blogs' do it with all them hair pulling, gurgling toddlers around. But at least the toddlers are charming. 

I will try to fashion a fresh post later tonight... before and after our SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE simultaneous tweet thing ... <~~~ You can click on it. And you're all invited to take part. Share you ORIGINAL humor and feedback. Just because Lorne didn't hire us (ANY of us) doesn't mean we can't hire ourselves... 

Til then, click on the 'Vampire Romance in Old Taranto...' thing up above and see a popular post from years ago.

But please try to join us for that SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE thing. We meet under the #SNL4fun banner. Please use that hashtag everytime you share material. Gathering under the same 'flag' gives us all much greater visibility.... Some weeks we almost TREND... Getting close... And that hashtag isn't minne or anyone else's... It belongs to ALL OF US and it helps all of us grow our sites. 

Take a chance. Get famous. Try it. 

Til then...


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Wednesday, May 13, 2015


This is Edith, the Piney witchy-woman talking. The vampires are in a stupor. They get that way sometimes. Oh, they move around and say stuff and go outside and all, but nothing much happens. Plus, Jonathon gets all holy-roller when Pentecost approaches. Jews count the days, just like Advent, til the Great Assembly at Sinai. But I ain't talkin' 'bout that tonight. Jonathon does enough of that. I got a scary story to tell you. Not so much a story. this thing is real...


Nobody knows when it started. This is just a recount of an early episode.... One year winter came early. Not that there were blizzards. None of that. But the ground froze up and icy blasts cleansed the land. And them what know say night time come early... 'bout ten minutes before it rightly should, though nobody knows why. 

Mrs. Onger live deep in the pines. Ain't no road. Ain't no town. Ain't no nothin'. She got a cabin... a root cellar and a shed. Once had a dog, but dumb dog got a leg and a head ripped off one night and Mrs. Onger never did find out how or why. She buried what was left. 

Next night the snow comes. Not a lot, just enough to gild the dead, hard ground.  She make herself a squirrel meat supper with roasted chestnuts and all. Throws in a few cranberries. Everybody in The Pines got berries. Ain't no lights in that cabin, 'cept what come from the hearth. So she sits and she rocks and she reads from an old, thirty five year old Sears & Roebucks catalog. Knows it all by heart. Which oven makes the best chicken. What man-shorts provide the best support and what dog food ain't got too much pig lips in it. Then she piss in an old, crackled. porcelain pot and goes to bed. Bed in a little room toward the back. If she leave the door open a little bit of orange glow left in the hearth follows her into the sleepin' place.  She says some prayer and drifts off.

Now they got no 'hours' this far back in The Pines. Don't need 'em. Hardly got no 'years' either. But sometime later, front door start bangin' like something tryin' a get in. She bar the door every night, but still room for a little bangin'. Old woman go - What that!? Who there?!.... No answer... Few heartbeats later bangin' get louder... She think maybe it a bear, 'cause they got bear 'round there. Only ain't no bear noises. Then she hear a thud. One a the metal cleats holdin' up the thick wood bar come lose. Half a heartbeat later, bar crash down too. Old woman raise quilt up to her eyes and look. She can see it all (just barely) right through bedroom door. Look like an old grandfather clock or a skinny wardrobe tryin' a shoulder its way through the door. Finally door go BOOM and smash open, lettin' in a bit a moonlight. She see it not no grandfather clock or wardrobe breakin' in. It a coffin... an old, rough, standin' up, wood coffin... An' it comin' right at her. Scrape along floor a little. Then rest a little. Then scrape some more. Old lady whimper. She go - Save me! Save me! Save me!.... An' she a mostly nice old lady, so you know this ain't right.

Cold wind blow in. Place freezin'. Twenty five heart beats later, walking-coffin right by her bed. She whisper - Please, Lord, I dreamin'... But voice from inside that strange dead box go - No you ain't... Not a loud voice. Jus' a little one. But that only make it worse..

Then, for a long time it jus' quiet. She think she hear breathin' inside, but that just her. Hard to say what coffin doin' 'cause it so dark. But she know it there... right by the bed. Smell grave dirt on it an' everything.

Little bit later, quilt act like it don't want a stay on bed and cover her no more... Something yankin' it off. Old lady, in a real quiet voice. go - No. No. No.... But whatever pullin' that quilt don't care, 'cause it on the floor.

That when the dead-box begin to groan. Not loud, but she can hear it. Sometime it sound like it laughin'...

Old lady jus' shiver... from fear... from cold... from everything... 

Keep prayin' that she die...

But this old lady not that lucky...

<more next time>


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Monday, May 11, 2015


The vampirino, known as Jonathon tells truths---

You know how in the movies the bad guy has all the weapons? Like in gangster movies... the racketeers are all crazy and the honest storekeepers are helpless, quivering weaklings?... Well, it ain't always like that. 

Let me tell you a few stories. This happened back in the nineteen thirties. Protection rackets were real big. Bootlegging was over and drugs were just beginning. Extortion was a known thing... a proven money maker. So this low-life guy... everybody called him 'CuffLinks,' sets himself up in a nice, little protection thing. He wasn't a senior member, but he had friends... cousins... uncles... you name it. Candy stores... They gave him candy stores. Most owners wrote numbers or had punch boards or some kind of gambling going on... Easy marks... Couldn't go to the cops, so they paid.

Only one guy wasn't a numbers writer.... completely legit... When gorillas came by he tried to explain... Showed them the malted machine... the newsstand... how he made grilled cheese sandwiches and hot dogs... sold Nekko Wafers, Hershey Buds.... boxes of dusting powder you took to the hospital for 'get well' presents... Figured they'd understand... But they broke his little girl's nose on the way home from school... Grabbed her... Smashed her... and ran away. Old Mrs Lipskey say who did it, but she wouldn't say nothing. Her granddaughter had a nose too.

Guy offers fifteen dollars a week. And he's not trying to pull anything. That was it. He couldn't afford no more. So they crushed his right eyeball with a hot, metal spoon. Guy closed up. Went back to being a bundle boy on Vine Street. Worked for a men's suit outfit. Made sure the cutters had a steady supply of goods.... big, heavy stacks of fabric....Not easy. You trip near one a them cutting machines and BOOM! There goes a hand... and this was before they knew how to sew 'em back.

I knew him. Factory owner was a 'familiar' of mine. Fixed me up with suits in return for little blood vials. Wife had the St. Vitus Dance. I'd come up in the winter time before closing, when it was already dark. Sometimes we'd talk... me and the guy who had his right eye smashed in... Got to know his story.... One night I say - You want revenge?.... He goes - Why? How much it gonna cost me?..... I go - Nothing.... He says - You'd do this for me?.... I nod. I say - I hate who you hate. Well, you want it?... He nods too.

Two nights later, 'Little Cuff Links,' the skinny, loudmouth, bastid, face slashin' son of 'Big Cuff Links' gets snatched comin' out of some front stoop-fabulous, glitzed up, whorey dive in Atlantic City...not a casino place, (they had plenty of secret, hidey-hole casinos even back then) but a scary little joint hiding in the shadows right in the middle of Big Cuff Link's fiefdom. Who's gonna smack back there, right? I float down from a moonless sky right behind him, clasp one hand over his mouth, grab him with the other and rise up into the void. Little cockroach starts kickin' and thrashin'. I flip him... toss him up into the air and grab his ankle. Seeing the precariousness of his new position all that thrashing nonsense stops. Now he just gasps and sobs. I don't know who he thinks I am. I don't even care.

Then I float out, maybe two hundred feet above the waves. Wind picks up. He cries. He questions me, but I don't respond. Soon we can't even see the shore. A vampire such as I can travel quickly and when we are perhaps one hundred and fifty miles from land I descend. At first I planned to drop him. But this way it will take longer. I lower him down into the chill, water and disappear. He's alone... out at sea... and far from salvation.

One month later I visit the father and do the same to him.

You know any bastards?... Leave a comment. I'll find out.

Meant to tell you a few stories... Maybe another time.


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Thursday, May 7, 2015


I continue my monograph... It is I Jonathon, also known as Tomas. There is so much I have not told you. Images from past times float through my consciousness. I see Parma during the plague. I smell the catacombs of Rome. There was a man well known in The Hanseatic League who fashioned corpses into marionettes. The joints were broken to prevent the inevitable stiffening. The bodies sealed in lacquer to slow decay. Quite the rage, they were. Electors and Grafs and Ritters paid plenty for his macabre entertainments. Artisans dressed them in the manner of the Veneto. They danced and marched in promenade, as choirs of castrati sang bell canto. Since decomposition can only be forestalled so long, the puppet plays always featured death. Sometimes hands fell off... sometimes heads. But due to the strings, they hovered off to an off stage netherworld, as if borne by spastic angels. I liked those plays. Da Vinci liked them too.

Did I ever tell you he never died? I might have, back when this public confession, this 'blog' first started. I cannot remember. ... We were in France. I know that, at the court of one Charles or another. I hated them all. Like dressed up animals they were.... capricious demons arrayed in surface piety and morality. Faith was a joke. Religion existed not to make better people, but to forge stronger dynasties. And they knew not that I, a proclaimer of The Unity, was a Jew, though an, as you say 'paranormal' one. Had they known, I might, to this day, be sealed in molten lead... Well, it would have solidified, but it would have been molten to start..... Some still are.

But I speak of Leonardo. And if any soul was born to be 'vampire' he was. When he took sick ( a series of strokes, I'd call it) he asked me to save him. I'd prolonged his mortal life with small drinks of my restorative blood, but this was different. He wanted the 'long drink.' He wanted to become as I. Another of our company, a celebrated alchemist from The Khanate Of The Golden Horde, ( I once saw him fashion a beautiful, avian, automaton, that actually laid a viable egg) told me to do it... so I did.

Is Leonardo Da Vinci still with us today?... Yes.... That's all I can say... Well, maybe a little more.... And he is to The Old World what Doctor Franklin is to The New... That's it. Let him tell you. 

I walked through Comic Con earlier tonight. It's in town this week. Two kids thought I was supposed to be Jim Morrison's ghost. I told them to go to hell. They laughed. One was dressed as a girl Chewbacca ( a regular Chewbacca with enormous breasts).. The other was dressed as a substitute school teacher. You could tell by the big sweat stains under the arms. I made cool, head nods to all the vampires. Figured it was my duty. 

Can you imagine what my life is like? I 'know' Leonardo Da Vinci... and STILL the kid at the ShopRite judges me when I ask for change to play the scratch-off machine... Look, I told you vampires have appetites. I want to win something. I want to get something for free.

I want to go home. I want to go back to the townhouse, but Sarah makes me feel so guilty. She's making little blood vials to give to sick babies in intensive care units and I smell from 'those two God damned mole-whores.'..... That's what she said. Edith lit an aroma candle. You know where her loyalties lie.

( he wanders off to slip hundred dollar bills into pockets of sleeping homeless guys. that always makes him feel good... and he whistles the theme from THE HIGH AND THE MIGHTY... I don't know what that represents, but it's what he does... these are real people. I have no control over them)...


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Wednesday, May 6, 2015


I had a vision.... was supposed to 'cull' a rather nasty piece of work... Dealt drugs. Ran sex parlors masquerading as less blatant massage parlors staffed with pathetic, Thai and Cambodian sex slaves. Cornflakes and tuna fish... Cornflakes and tuna fish... That's all he feeds them, cornflakes and tuna fish. And they think it's gold. Sure they get milk for the cereal and mayonnaise for the tuna... sometimes a loaf of dollar white bread from the ShopRite, but that doesn't make it gold.

Well, tonight he died. But I waited til he strong armed a guy out of three hundred and fifty thousand dollars and a Maserati... Then I killed him. Figured I'd feed the kitty. Does that make me bad? I freed the sex slaves. Gave each one twenty five hundred dollars. Figured they could fly home. Only (for them) home was even worse than here. So I don't know where they went. Probably Atlantic City.

Yo, sex slaves, you just got liberated! What are you gonna do next!?..... We go 'Lantic City!...... Only in America. Actually, I don't think they even spoke English.....

The guy had a nice watch. Took that too. You know, besides the townhouse, we support the elferinas and elferinos too, plus a few people you don't know about. 

I don't want to go home. Sarah knows about Sylvia and Aura. I know how she'll be. She'll act like it's not important... just 'stimulation'... nothing to do with her and I... But she makes me feel so guilty. why would she even notice what I do with mortals? They're all going to be dead soon anyway. Like clouds, they are. Here one moment and gone the next. Even their bones decay. Naturally occurring preserved skeletons are rare. Most coffins, even the metal ones, oxidize and disappear after sixty years... surviving bone fragments go soon after. There's your mortals. That's what happens to mortals. Why would she even notice?.... But she does. Oh, God, why do I do this?

Maybe I'll stay at The University of Pennsylvania Museum. They know me there. Management hates me from the big Luna versus Sarah cat fight a few years back. Mummy dust flew like confetti. Another romantic fiasco that was. But the watchmen like me. I'll tell them stories... point out ghosts... sublimate through walls for them... sing bawdy Dutch tavern songs... Take my mind off things. 

Still, not a bad haul. Maybe she'll like the Maserati? Baylah can arrange a sale if she doesn't. You see Maserati coming and going down the shore..

Oh look... There's that shoe store I like. Excuse me while I sublimate inside and pick up a pair of black, leather ankle boots. Don't worry. I'll leave money....

Buenos noches, amigos.....

(with that, the trim 'young' vampirino, known as Jonathon, or Tomas, melts through the old, bronze doorway and disappears into the shop... Bienvenido a filadelfia after midnight... And remember... We only pretend that it's fiction...)


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Tuesday, May 5, 2015


This is one of 'my' nights. No one talks but me. Jonathon ben Macabi, a.k.a. Tomas de Macabea takes the reins tonight. And I am quite the accomplished 'horseman.' I had a white stallion, presented to my father by the Caliph himself. Bokar we named him...'Day Break' and we flew over the hills of Al Andalus like ginn. We owned other mounts. Our stables were large. But he was the prince, descended from a line going back to Damascus in what you call 'the seventh century.' We fed him special grain imported from Sicily, strains going back to the days of  old Roman latifundia. I miss him. His progeny survive as Lippazaners, though he, himself, was pure Arabian.

I digress. You see, vampires know many appetites. I hunger for many things. And after a fashion. I shall be true to Sarah. She is my 'vampirina.' There shall be no other. But I may know other mortal playthings. Indeed, I am with two now. I believe you know them, as they were mentioned last time we met. Sylvia and Aura... I am with the mole-king's daughters, deep beneath the streets of Center City in their kingdom of never used, dark and dusty subway tunnels. 

We tarry in a ruined water closet ( some stops had them back then ) on an old tiled floor, complete with drain, under a thin trickle from a leaky water pipe. It's cool down here, far away from the unusual, early May warmth. We bathe each other with large, natural sponges... an old passtime of ours. And I give them deep, langorous 'cat baths.' as only a vampire can. How flattering the orange candlelight. Like creatures from The Satyricon we are. ... I lapse into a low, barely audible growl. Vampirinos can do that... and they purr back... My two, mortal 'jugetes.'.... My 'toys.' .... Silver and Gold.... Sylvia and Aura.

Every large city has mole-folk. People find their way down into these dark, secret places for many reasons. Some never return to the surface, subsisting on fair of another kind. And in every metropolis vampires make common cause with them. 

Shhh.... They bathe me now. I feel each soft, brush, kiss and tickle as only a life-eater can.

So permit me my ease.

Come back tomorrow... The Vampire Wonderland will be here.

Now leave us to our pleasures.

Summer nights are short enough.


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Sunday, May 3, 2015


Jonathon hates May. The nights are too short... not enough dark time. Most vampires feel the same way... It's not just the taking of lives, or the blood. They need black, starry skies and big cheesy moons. Everything stands still in the wintertime. Everything is calm. He can walk for hours. No one bothers him. He can sit on a bench, staring up at a light in some apartment and lose himself in a Zen-like trance. 

Summer is different. True night, at least to vampire eyes, comes so late and dawn is even worse. Baylah knows. She feels it too. That's why she likes the shore. Moonlight on the waves seems to magnify everything.... a short night, but a perfect one.

Jonathon disappears into the tunnels... the deep ones, far below the subways, where the mole-folk live. Sarah knows. He swears he doesn't 'couple' with Aura or Sylvia, the mole-king's daughters. He used to, but lately he hasn't. No more long, slow sponge baths in candlelit, ruined restrooms ( the deep, deep tunnels are remnants of never used subway lines). They share a hookah. They talk. They wander through pitch dark, maze-like passageways. Once in a while he brings down a captive, a bad soul destined for 'culling.' The mole-folk love watching vampires feed. Spotty illumination from scattered cans of Sterno adds just the right touch. The victim mumbles. They tremble. Some run. He catches them. The crowd cheers. Then all grow silent, as he drinks up the life.

Nights feel longer down there. Jonathon likes that.

Sarah sits back at the townhouse with Annie, listening to the ramblings of her sly, old, wizened, mortal grandfather. He still goes on about the public-leg-shaving girls of Old Berlin. Edith makes 'crazy' circles 'round her ear with her index finger. But who knows? Old and semi senile he may be. Still, he does have money. God knows what he's seen. 

Sarah gives him a few drops of her blood as a restorative. He quiets down and stares at the cold, dark fireplace.... Edith goes - Hey, old man, you want a smoked turkey breast sandwich?.... He shrugs ... She makes him one and serves it on a genuine nineteen forty nine Russell Wright dish. Vampires have stuff like that. Baylah says she's got the thigh bone of noted, ancient Judean princess, Salome. Who knows? Maybe she does?

I know you've been reading about an 'alternate' Earth ruled by heartless, demonic aliens... and you might read about them again. We got more disembodied, spirit narrators floating around this place than Carter's got liver pills. (you know what that means?) And each one's got a story to push. What? You think only 'live' people want to direct?

You know where Jonathon is? He's walking home... Might not get there for a few more hours, but he's on his way. There's a lot of kids on the street this time of year. I don't know. They never sleep. No, they do sleep... from 7AM to 3PM. Jonathon 'haunts' them. Lets them see him do strange things, like sublimate through a bus stop shelter, or levitate up into the sky til he disappears. They scream... They run... New urban legends are born.

I got a feeling it's gonna be that kind of summer.....


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