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It is I Jonathon and tonight I'd like to explain why you haven't seen me much these last few moons... maybe it's been more like years? Who knows? Night-folk don't count days. We count heartbeats and raindrops and moonbeams. We count clouds sailing 'cross the stars and solitary souls crying in the night. I sit in the 'little library,' my favorite room, and I think. I think abut the small ghost boy who used to keep me company... the little polio victim. But he's moved on and our townhouse is poorer for it.. I think about all of them, mortal and night-folk. They're not so different. Each is a soul destined to glide 'round this Earth for a time and then pass on to somewhere else. For some the passing is peaceful. They drift off in bed surrounded by their loved ones. Others die alone in dark cold shadows chilled by the rain, but secure in God's love. I talk a lot about God. I'm sure there are those who think that's odd for a vampire. To that, I must answer - They don't know vampires.... We are not all the same, just as mortals are not all the same... Please permit me to let it go at that.
It's dark but I can see between the the deep green, velvet draperies that blanket the bay window. There's a streetlight a little way down the square. I say 'square' instead of 'block,'.... an affectation of the seventeenth and eighteenth century... from Penn's time... and a lifetime or two later, Franklin's. A thin, pure, narrow, pearly blade of light cuts into the room., slicing through the mullioned panes, on through the upholstered window seat and through the old rich hardwood. It bisects the dense, wool 'Turkey' rug, the tip of my fine, black, leather bootkin, my left leg, including the like portion of my torso, shoulder and arm... And I sit and I contemplate...
Billy, the mortal who coordinates this tale for us, had a health scare. Not his soul. His soul was never threatened, just his body. He hates seeing physicians, but I make him. I insist. Oh, I could cure any earthly malady with a few drops of my blood... but he wouldn't have it. Nothing against night-folk. I realize that. It's simply his way... Thus the doctors... I made the necessary appointments, or rather a trusted 'familiar' (devoted mortal assistant) did and he went.... They took blood, in a far less subtle way than I ever would. They poked and prodded and made enlightened observations, or rather a certain singular 'general practitioner' did... The others came later, as did a whole subsequent series of blood tests, urine samples, cardiograms and sonic images of strategic internal organs... Then, after almost microscopic snippets of livery prostate tissue, plus a quick little bladder scan guaranteed to cause blood tinged orange-red urine for at least seventy two hours (Billy slept through the tissue harvesting and bladder scoping) they pronounced him 'fine.' or the closest they ever come to saying fine. As his 'guardian vampire' (well, what else am I?) I am exceedingly grateful to relieved.
I love mortals... and not just as a food source. For I help many more than I cull... Edith, our mortal 'witchy woman' housekeeper says I see them as my own special ant colony. When she shares that I give her a bemused look and add - But I and the ants are different species. Mortal, I am not, but 'human' I am. Observe my body and the form of my being. A sea slug I am not.
--- Then he lapses into silence.... a homeless gentleman who does his best to hide that fact walks down the street, head down and lost in thought... sniff sniff sniff.... our vampire friend, Jonathon, picks up his scent... He sublimates his hand through the mullioned panes and carefully places a stack of five vintage silver dollars (each worth about forty times their face value) on the external brick sill... a magical bit of streetlamp illumination makes them glisten just so. The pathetically self conscious 'little tramp' allows his gaze to rise and sees them. He silently approaches pockets the treasure and continues... Jonathon watches through the slit between the draperies and smiles. It's a thing he does, placing stacks of sparkling, mint condition, antique silver dollars where the 'little tramp' will find them. He does the like for others too. Once in a while he slips in a truly valuable fifteenth century golden Venetian ducat. Through discreet mental imagery, each recipient knows the address of a fine, old basement level coin brokerage on Samson Street, in a way, Philadelphia's answer to Diagon Alley. The lucre is redeemed for a very fair price and a little bit of goodness seeps out into the world...
Our vampire, Jonathon, falls back onto the music, quietly playing on an small turntable in the darkness.... He mouths the words and sighs.... Billy has a good friend indeed...
Please clink THIS. I think you'll enjoy the song
......
then click THAT to join me on Twitter...
thank you and God bless...
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The darkness is all they could focus on. The determination to be a day-breaker competing daily for the last of the suns light overwhelming even the most mountain of firm unmovable bedrock not withstanding.
The thoughts one has about themselves is often worse then what could ever be written by any mortal, human, the culled or vampire.
Likenesses aside Billy (our unwavering faithful scribe) rustles the shadows of yesteryear and day. Journaling their wanton belief that they (the vampirinos and 'rinas) too may be healed by the fresh breath of the gloaming dsy's setting.
Reflections are not seen nor known to be seen by the "night-folk". Desperately retelli g their tales is of no last resort for our beloved writer. Suvh as things may be, he comtinues to remember abd at times wishes he could write faster abd presere more soul-filled-stories.
But alas the human conditikn alliws him no greater speed than his fingers, hands and heart can scribe.
Believe you me, WilKravitz "Billy" is more than juat the "real" deal. He's surpaseedover a million words on vampirewonderland.blogspot.com. AND We Are Damn Proud of him.
The rain oh how it rained. Souls we speak of in this installation of Vampirewonderland.blogspot.com how it rains. Countless times our dedicated scribe Sir William "Billy" "Wil" Kravitz toils amongst the hard to find umbrella that hasn't been knocked down, blowb away or carried away for "our" night folk to at least have a winking hope of surviving the sun's deathly approach. That's how it goes in the lives of those who can no longer be apart of the break of day. The moon is their only light they can be under. Far too many moond as one might guess do not provide a shelter from anything that roams the night's clock. Tick tocl the constant counting of nights that never seem to end. You see those who have been culled or "turned-vampire". Was strictly tl benefit. Help not hurt. Let live. Not die.
Those who can not die do not complain. They (us) vare that badge with honor. Those of us whom Billy obseves, saves and ultimately guide into their new "skins". Yes, it's true one must take on the form of anothr human in order to survive. Often times. As gruesome or celebratory their transitions are our beloved scribe "WilKravitz" will be there. Amways. To cover yohr tears thst run more than a full rains storm.., all you have to do is ask for help. And help "Billy" will.
Ah! The wind does but onky need whisper of the decending nights blanketed canvas. Vistas vastly well known by the hands not tides of time. Clasping one another in a rhythmatic motion to "cleanse" ones based upon current deviance; mind body or soul.
Though the truth may be harder to see than a lie, the hands that wring out the wet clothes or strip the bird bare of its feathers cascading like rumors thrown into the air. Our gentle scribe bares the white knuckled edges of his trusted pen that strikes a match setting fire or rebirth amongst us "culled" folk.
It's not a great misunderstanding or an impossible obastacle yet undefeated. Think only of the first last or best time "when". You'll find we are here. A trove of roaming spirits existing in the either.
Smoke signals provide the distance to be had but the fire determines the lenghts in which you embark on and which ones to step aside of or to be brave.
Bravity like Chivalry is nit a trade, mark or a lost art. Feeling uninspired? Don't dismsy. Here within these synapsis' of creaturss there lay a beast to rival. A man that can not be in lost hope for or who's gallantry unshared. Indulge your mind. Nurture your spirit and lighten your heart.
We will nit bite. Unless provoked. But then agsin you can not rattle the cage of an unfed tiger for too long.
It's the scope of humanity, morals and unique qualities that form our crew.
Read on.Join. After one bite, you'll be able to throw a flame faster than the flick of a match.
It's the pen that strikes the match!
And what abilities agility and talent it takes to at least fake it until you make it.
The words ringing in Sara's ear. The Beauty Pageants of amd any talentless politicos would shudder at her sheer volume of knowledge of what ome thinks is not unknown.
Too much decorative talent gets lost in the trypitic forums hallz passage ways and endless staircases that connect direct confuse and protrude jauntingly with a wind of chester wood or cedared floorings of her once everyday visited rooms deserted.
Paintimgs of the workds moat renowned painters hung from the wallz as if they coukd leap into conversation with other when no one else wad around.
Sara pondered and queeried about her long nightzms spent hoping to if not be but understand their talented scales, dimenions and geometrically placed nuances' within each of each's own work.
Talent such as those who's works of art dress her cocoon. The ivy leafed, mooss overgrown home had still become fruitful after all the centuries she and the brownstone had with hiod.
Barkerz, Lawyers, Doctors, Artists, Dignitararies from the world over have either walked, danced, met, died, danced or slumbered were in shadows yhemselves upon the barrier called home.
A lifetime of stories from every person who had (and many still do) graced the halls or walls of her home.
Time has no talent. People Do. Faith does. Hope does. And love has more talent in her home than she could haver hoped for.
Evrry one she knew, knows, has met and yet nit, reside within each stroke of a brush on each painting on her walls.
These are my Friends. I am happy, grateful and content.
And as she spoke each word again, switch by switch each light would be turned off.
In the dark is where her heart knows that that takes talent.
To live blindfolded to day dwellers but life as it was to her; it's only the dark can one see best, trip, skip rise fall and repeat.
The wood flooring creaking the echos of her steps for at long ladt she has foubd her light in the dark.
A meal, two, three, breakfast, afternoon tea a liquid diet for lunch, supper and dinner always the merriment swirled the moaring of the alligators swimming like snakes on sand err "fish out of water".
A what a match that would strike! The embodiement of yoour enternal past, as it is with "us" (the vampirinas and O's). ., crossing the dots and dotting the eyes which supplantandgly gaze upon which nit a wreckage or battle scarred ship to to mast at its bottle popped champagne'ing glory. Set sail and glorify not the destination but each journeys' step towards the seperated but equadistanced desired locations.
Some say that as a very matter of fact it is within each if us who live, thrive, die are only to be reborn "here"..
,
#VampireWonderland.Blogsot.com
Tell 'em.Billy sent ya! ;)
"Cheers to now and for today, tomorrow, for the past, present and future, 'tis Sir William ("Billy" or "Wil" who've known him before he was "culled"). To health, hapiness for we journey together upon the 'morrow, echoing in the halls of yester years I give once, I give two and a three cheers!"
Spirits were high and enveloped in the warmth of the, now vacant, rooms of the ivy engulfed from years of neglect (or respect, court's still out on that one) hanging like forgotten laundry in the wind. Voices never change. Tones mature Age. Grow. Live and teach others how to learn. Correct or nit there was a pounding in the echos sound. Brick never speaks, but walls, open windows to the dumbwaiters empty space haunting the brownstome to a chill never felt so deeply before. Should the rooms be closed and locked or clothed and tapestries withstanding, does a threadbare item still retain its warmth at days end and thru nights cold? So many questions, hearts broken find home within these walls.
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