What Holds you Here?... 3/11/15

Everyone is at risk. The phenomenon is well documented. No one knows the cause. No one knows how to prevent it. I'm talking about 'winkers,'... people who are there one minute and gone the next. It happens in that instant when you look away, or leave the room to get pretzels. The neighbor lady was right there, leafing through your OK Magazine and eating Girl Scout Cookies. But then... when you return, the Samoas are there. The magazine's on the floor, though the neighbor lady's vanished. She's not in the powder room, nor snooping through your mail scattered atop the dining room table. The door's locked. Your husband is upstairs sleeping and the kids are safe in 'juvvie' hall. They're coming back, but she ain't. The universe just winked her out of existence, or transfered her somewhere's else.

We do know that atomic particles can be instantaneously sent from one point to another. At times it happens spontaneously. Now you see it. Now you don't. This is like that, except the particles are a bit larger.  And I'm not talking about alleged government experiments, such as the one in the Philadelphia Navy Yard circa 1943. Doctor Franklin supposedly knows something about that, but he won't tell you anything.

I'm talking about S.M.T. ---- spontaneous matter transference.... the mysterious 'little sister' to spontaneous human combustion. I know a lot of S.H.C. stories stem from the accidental witnessing of vampire feedings. Victims always ignite into 'cool' blue flames and burn to ash. You know how many drained lifeless bodies they'd have on You Tube otherwise?But even so, SOME cases appear to occur in and of themselves. And certain instances are never explained.

Imagine walking along a city street, taking in the scene, checking yourself out in shop window, humming little tunes, when ZAP!... your eyes behold the orange skies of Mars, as your skin instantly freezes and your lungs turn to glass..... Even worse, you solidify deep within a twenty two hundred degree magma chamber. How long would it take to die? How long does it take for a brain to burn?

Now, to be truthful, no one ever disappears while being watched, even if just momentarily... a stranger's glance will do. It's like the old scientific maxim --- measuring something both validates it and alters it at the same time.... They 'look' therefore I 'am.' Maybe that's why so many people crave fame? To be seen is to exist....

They say perfectly preserved, dead bodies have been found sealed within seams of granite, hundreds of meters beneath the surface. And desiccated naked bodies (four to be exact) were reported by crew members on Apollo Fourteen half way to the Moon.

Que sera sera.

What will be, will be.

Wasn't supposed to post tonight.Lot a chores today...busy and all that.

But this just busted into my mind and I wanted to share it.

Good night...

See you in the morning.

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A PRIVATE SCREENING... A NIGHTMARE.. 3/10/15

Empty movie theaters are good places to see ghosts. Actually, you'll do more than 'see' them. You'll encounter them. The energy of the room brings them out. It helps when they're actually running a film... Not the ghosts... the projectionist. 

Go on a weeknight. Buy your ticket and take your seat. Most times, you might wind up sharing the place with a few other patrons...slackers... bohemian couples... Nobody goes to movies on a week night. They're all at Starbucks, tapping out 'The Next BIG Thing.' But every once in a while you'll get lucky... No one else will be there... no one in the flesh anyway. The girl in the ticket booth knows. So does the old man selling candy. He whispers to himself and chuckles. It's so quiet in there, except for the hum from the florescent tubes in the glass candy counter. The ticket girl bows her head and goes back to her book... a small, military issue, World War 2 issue Bible. She moves her lips, as she reads. Sometimes she just nods.

You enter the auditorium, or whatever they call it. Sanctuary Cinematique would be a better term. It's dark, but not too dark. you can still see the life sized, bas relief, mer-folk on the walls.... the heavy, velvet curtain and the gold leafed proscenium arch. No one else is there... just you and the exit signs. You take a seat... right in the middle of the last row. There are two aisles... maybe eight seats on the right and left sections and sixteen in the middle. The wall behind you is carpeted. 

You put your things down as silently as possible, lest something notice you and eat your popcorn in a slow and sounsless manner.
A door opens... the one to the left aisle. You press back in the seat. Someone enters. It's the old man, the candy butcher. He makes his way toward the front, crosses to the right aisle and goes back up. Did he stop and say something into an empty third row? Hard to say. He leaves. It gets darker. The heavy, velvet curtain glides open. Did someone sniff? Was it you?... Hard to tell.... 

A short subject comes on... an old somewhat faded film about polio, circa nineteen fifty two. There are little children in iron lungs. Somber parents visit, sitting by the exposed heads. A lacquered up actress reminds all to give to The March of Dimes. Can you imagine? All they wanted were dimes. They always show unusual things like that. The place is known for it. God knows what their library must be like. 'Someone' crinkles cellophane. Was it the start of the 'coming attractions?'... Who knows? 

Everything's from the vault... old fifties teasers... clips from Father's Little Dividend and Stalag Seventeen... Black and white film stock has such a dream-like aspect, especially when it's slightly worn... A shadowy figure peers from the screen... only for an instant... but definitely not part of the frame... Just a face and a body... Spencer Tracy walked right through it....You might want to leave, but for some strange, intangible reason you don't, though you fold shut the popcorn and put it away....

The feature starts.. Fred Astaire in Royal Wedding... Smiling dead people, singing and dancing like the living..... You doze off... for just a moment, but you do doze off, only to wake with a start.... Something was next to you. Fred Astaire danced on the ceiling... then the dark shape evaporates... an iciness on the back of your neck.... a weal on the inside of your wrist..... Odd, but it doesn't trouble you...

The image on the screen freezes... a splendid coach and a beautiful palace... Someone takes your arm... You rise and glide down the aisle... or pass through the seats... It's all so fuzzy... Tiny voices tickle your ears, urging you on... little whispers... distant giggles. Yet discordant words bleed through... Go back - they say... Wake up - they plead....

All the weak, little lights placed about the movie house go dark... There's just you and the screen.... A figure, a thin, waxy figure, exits the coach and moves toward you... He wears a dark shroud. Then he smiles, cracking his face into a multitude of tracings and wrinkles. The eyes are black and lustrous, like small, dark marbles. And there's no color... no color anywhere, save for the dark, red, scabby look of his gums.

Why does he smile? Why does he have to smile like that? You see a face... a small head... there at the back of his throat. But this one doesn't smile. Then he takes your hand in his chicken claw appendage and gently pulls you in... Just before you break the membrane 'tween this world and the next, you say thank you...

What comes next, I cannot say... at least not for where you are...

A bit later, the girl in the ticket booth closes her Bible and calls a mortuary. Soon they bundle your body into a hearse and roll away.

The old candy butcher waves goodbye...

Never see a movie all alone.....

<more next time>

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♥ Rachmaninoff's "Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini"-the Vampirino Jonathon Remembers Things. 3/8/15

It is over. Billy has been restored. The spirit rests within the simian shell of what was Jamba. He sits in a specimen display habitat deep within Doctor Franklin's menagerie beneath the Anti-Enchantment Bureau. And the entity is a liar. His powers were never so vast, nor his age so long. Perhaps he understands not human speech? But he quietly stares out through strange, orangutan eyes. Sometimes he shambles around his space. He sits on an upper ledge. He moves to a lower ledge. Occasionally he moans. I don't know how much of the ape remains. I don't know if he's gone, or dead, or merely suspended in the dark. Thank you, Doctor Franklin. You always come through for us.


Billy is upstairs in his chamber. He rests under sedation. A therapist will be here tomorrow to teach him to move within his body. I ask him where he was, but get no answer. I don't think he knows. 


Edith prowls around the house throwing 'hoo-doos.' She says they keep away unwelcome spirits. Maybe they will. Odd how even night-folk grow complacent. We think we know this city... and we do. But everything is everywhere and Philadelphia is just as vulnerable as anywhere else. 


The snow melts. It was warm today. I didn't see the daylight, but feel the echo of it in the air. Sarah and I will go out. We will attend to the sick and cull a victim... one for her and one for me. Right now I sit in my 'chapel' room. It's a music room too. My 78rpm collection is legendary. Caruso arias... pre-war Cantorials from Vienna... from Budapest... from Warsaw... old Philadelphia Orchestra recordings. There's a bell canto recording from the early nineteen twenties. If anyone asks, it's officially an unidentified counter tenor. But trained ears know different. The timbre unique... Like a counter tenor, yet with subtle variations. I know what it is and I'll tell you, because who'd believe you anyway? His name is Bartolo, a castrato born at least two hundred and fifty years ago. But the 'unusual alteration' was not the only thing to befall him. During the First Empire... during Napoleon's reign, they sent him down to entertain the troops in Iberia... the 'Peninsular Campaign' you know. While there, he caught the eye of a strange gentleman in the back. Common soldiers rarely heard him sing. His voice was for the officer corps and other well born gentlemen down from London. Sometimes various, local grandees would attend too, such as the strange hidalgo in the back. No one knew it, but that nobleman was a vampire. Obviously, I was not the only Spaniard to go down that road. Three nights later, The Great Bartolo was a new born vampirino. He was maybe forty four when it happened, but still possessed of a very boyish charm. Castrato are like that. And he still sang with the clear, pure voice of his mortal days. Still records to his day. I believe he lives in Switzerland.


Sarah will be down soon and we'll leave. We have a list. Not a long one. Three or four names. Sick people. Poor people. We visit them. One gets a vial of blood. Another gets a discrete, little envelope of diamonds. After that we feed. It's our time, you know. Once a month and all that....(he thinks) 'And all that'... After four years of this 'blog' thing, how well you know.


I do my job and I watch the world... 'Cull the wicked. Help the worthy live.' Sometimes I pass people on the street and I recognize them form, say thirty years, or thirty five years ago.... maybe a young mother and father who used to push their little one for a brisk, pre-beddy-bye evening stroll. I'd say - How's the little one?'... They'd beam. The little one would gurgle..... And now the mother is sixty three and the father, if he's around, I don't see anymore. They live so fast. I've seen so many go. You don't know what it's like. People I remember from Restoration England have been dead more than three hundred years...... (he puts on a recording.... the same one we have, as a video, up above..... we hope you listen to it too)


We pass through the window of this upstairs room and pan over the late night city. Steam rises through vents in manhole covers. Taxis roll by. Frightened, solitary pedestrians silently glide home, or to other places. Loud, laughing frat boys exit clubs looking for fights. Waitresses pour coffee in all night cafes for people who tell tales.


Sarah comes down. She and Jonathon bundle up, exit the townhouse and take their place in the late night parade.


Edith watches them go. Then she throws another hoo-doo and runs upstairs to check on Billy.


A Sunday night in March.


<more next time>


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Billy Kravitz' vampire wonderland: 65TH BINGO BOY episode (like a film treatment) 1/2...

Billy Kravitz' vampire wonderland: 65TH BINGO BOY episode (like a film treatment) 1/2...: BINGO BOY - post 65 So the new house at the shore was all filled up that night. Marge and Jimmy in their room. Ricky and Little Chrissie ...BINGO BOY is really a crazy, charming tale. This is the final episode. a lot of people like to read stories backwards. If you're like that... and if you like a weird, hardscrabble romance in a crooked bingo hall under the Philadelphia 'EL' tracks, that leads to a 'murder'.... a prisoner down the cellar and a cushy move to a nice town along the South Jersey Shore---this one's for you.



Click on the title up above, read the episode and then keep clicking OLDER POST to see what came before, or just scroll down to it, if your screen is set up that way. If you like THE WORLD ACCORDING TO GARP, or that kind of pixilated tale, take a look at this.



Please leave comments along the way. Writers appreciate that so much.



And in another vein. Who watches Saturday Night Live? Who'd like to write for Saturday night Live? Well, we have this 'thing' we do that's almost as good. Every week, while the real show airs on the east coast, we 'live tweet' our opinions and critiques, but most of all our own humor to - Twitter.com/#SNL4fun .. (click it) . Jump in and join us. Ad a little joke... your 'take' on a sketch... even something humorous that has nothing to do with the sketch... If the sketch is about an office, share a work story. Use the show as inspiration. But YOUR creativity is important, not theirs. And don't be afraid to bomb. Comics and comedy writers bomb all the time. Most of the time we DON'T bomb. Remember--- MANY people will see your material. SOME of them will like it. Once you try you will be hooked. It IS almost like having our own show... our own version of SNL. So give yourself a job in 'showbiz'... Join everybody else next week at 11:30PM for #SNL4fun <~~~ and remember to use this hashtag on every tweet, so it will be seen as part of the group. That way we all gain greater visibility. This isn't my hashtag. I'm just one of the 'cheerleaders' who really push it (there are others)...



We've been growing every week and are close to TRENDING. Post your humor, observations, critiques and comedy where people WILL SEE IT. Post in on #SNL4fun. If we don't (yet) write for the real SNL, we can still write for this one. It's simple. It's easy and it appears to be working.



Now you know.



<back to our regular story next time>



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NOT EVEN THE CHOCOLATE FOUNTAIN AT GOLDEN CORRAL COULD SPOUT SO MUCH BLOOD . 3/7/15

Billy's body was still. The tiny wet praying mantis things were gone. Someone stood over Jamba (the orangutan) reading stanzas out of an old book. Apparently there was no time for memorization, so they just read. I know not who the reader was. Many of the players in this farce I do know. For it is I, Zebulon, the disembodied spirit, who narrates this passage. 

Jonathon and Sarah waited in another room filled with aroma candles and supplied with specially flavored bottles of chilled, top shelf vodka. Whoever set up the room had only a rudimentary knowledge of night-folk. While those trappings may have distracted certain baser sorts of vampires under normal circumstances, Jonathon and Sarah were more assimilated than that. Besides, they were far from relaxed. Billy was essentially 'family' and they were very concerned. So they sat there in silence. Jonathon closed his eyes, conjuring the dry, sunny hills of old Al Andalus. Sarah just stared at a vase filled with flowers. There was piped in music, Oklahoma, but they didn't listen to that.

God knows what formerly arthropod sentient spirits think about. What does life smell like to them? This one claimed nativity on a cultivated world, rather like Edwardian, or late Victorian Britain, but with equine sized praying mantises, given to promenades through the park and musicales filled with stringed instruments easily plucked by spiky, mantid 'hands.'

Could be that our esteemed humanity was no big thing to him? What he wanted was a body...some container... a physical way to interact and taste the mortal world for a while. A telepath... a technician specially trained, in an effort to enhance his already natural abilities, stood by Jamba's stainless steel table, providing a running commentary on the thoughts and images rising up from the dazed, red ape. .... He said - Sleepy...so sleepy..No words. Just an image.....

Another functionary, a woman in a white coat, gestured toward Billy and said - What else? What do you get from him?

He said - I don't know. Nothing's coming through. Aren't you getting anything from the sensors? My God, you got him so wired up. Don't blame me. What are YOU getting?

She just gave him a look. Goddamn 'level six' giving her grief!? She don't care about him. Franklin tooled around on his little scooter going - Children! Children! We're all here to learn. Remember that. Calm down.

The thing is, formerly insectoid spirit creatures are so different. Maybe not in the absolute. Honey bees dream too, after all. But this thing just looked like an Earth-bug-thing. Who knows what it really was all those eons ago? So they waited some more.

Little while later, Franklin goes - What do you get now?..... Level six telepath says - He's free. The human one, over there, is free.......His name's Billy. They call him Billy. Use his name - goes Franklin..... The telepath says - He seems to be inhabiting the totality of his brain again. 'Billy' I mean...... And the entity? - asked Franklin..... I don't know - goes the Level Six guy.

But five feet away, Jamba, the orangutan, suddenly sat up, opened his eyes, grabbed 'Level Six' by the forearm, shoved his hand all the way down his throat and bit it off. Then he bolted 'round the room like a simian bullet, shattering equipment and scattering terrified staff people, all the while shrieking like a banshee. Level Six guy spouts blood all over the place. Chocolate fountain at Golden Corral can't gush that much blood. Guy goes white, collapses onto the floor and thrashes around like a fish.

Franklin goes - Jesus Christ!... pulls a one eighty and tears out a there...... God bless that scooter. I'll tell you that.... Speeds down the hall yellin' - Get the guards! Get the guards! Get the guns! Get the guns!... before disappearing 'round a corner.

Two Level Threes wheeled Billy out a there real fast..

Think the Level Two guy channels spirits real good now, because he is one...

<more next time>

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PIG'S BLOOD AND HONEY... DOCTOR FRANKLIN TELLS TALES... 3/6/15

This is Doctor Franklin. They don't know I can commandeer their system. They don't know a lot of things. The vampires and their like, I mean. But if you're loyal to the tale, you know how many times I, or others attached the The Bureau have pulled their chestnuts out of the fire.  And this 'Billy' thing is just the latest example. To them, I'm just another 'familiar,' an exalted one, at least I like to think, but a glorified servant just the same. You probably think so too. Do you identify me with the gentleman from history class... with the, well, for lack of a better term, the 'midwife' to the birth of our American Republic? Or do you just see me as that old guy in a strange painting with a Davy Crockett hat smashed on his head? Remember, ladies and gentlemen, it's I who grace the one hundred dollar bill.... Which one are you on?

And even I have a dark side too. How do you think we beat the British? (he gazes off, focusing on a what-not artfully placed on a fruit wood table in The Residence, before continuing) Let me relate one instance. Captains would bring back things. Ships' captains, I mean. We had spices and fabrics and ivory carvings and carpets from the Turkey trade, Chinese porcelains too... and then there was the 'quickened' cargo... the live trade... exotic animals.... small, wildcats, such as ocelots for aristocratic menageries. We had our landed class too. Hereditary patroons in New York. Manor-Lords in our Pennsylvania. Not to mention those troublesome, cavalier, slave holders farther south. The New World didn't come with ready-made serfs, so they willingly compromised our ideals and created a beaten down peasantry of our own. God, how we were blind to those things. Even me. (he toys with an enamel snuff box in his vest pocket before going on) What were we talking about? Oh, yes... my dark side..... 

There were these crabs. I can't recall whence they came... an island in the South Atlantic, I believe. Rather large and 'muscular' for crustaceans... about the size of a farmer's fist, not counting the claws and legs, which were stout in their own right. And the most hideous mouth parts all working and working to tear away the flesh... Ah, yes! Shiboomi Crabs! I remember....Dull green and purple creatures. Natives would dig a pit... smear a victim with pig's blood and honey... Can you imagine such a concoction? Then they'd do a dance, sing a song, line up, spit in the victim's face and throw him in. Did I mention the pit was filled to approximately thigh level with the crabs? Well, it was. Screaming started right away. They'd thrash and try to climb out, but that was impossible. Then they'd slip in the whole bloody mess and fall into the hellish maelstrom, sending the horrible scavengers into a frenzy. Like being devoured by living quicksand. Hands and limbs went first, along with the gentleman's bits and pieces. Oh, the bones were left... tendons too. But without muscles they were, shall we say, somewhat passed their prime. I'd say it took a good quarter hour to die in that pit... at least. Then a few minutes more to thoroughly clean the bones. They'd fish them out with a hook... the bones, I mean.. and  worship them in the bonehouse. 

Well, we did the same thing. Had a pit right where 'The Wedding Cake' is today. That's a term some people use for City Hall, since it looks like a gigantic, Second Empire, French wedding cake. Politicians just say 'the cake.' Who's got the cake? -means who's got the power. In those days it was our Tyburn... our killing field... where we did executions. Mostly foreign spies and the like. Kill the first and the rest tend to become quite blabby. Had a gallows there too. Readers know this. Right in the middle of City Hall Courtyard. Right where the big, inlaid, bronze compass rose is today. That's where they 'dropped.' Crab pit was right nearby. I think just off to the northwest. We did the crab thing at night, lest children and ladies see. Occasional doxies didn't count. Kept the pit locked under a thick, oak slab when not in use. Constabulary chased people away... (nods and sighs) Yes.... Shiboomi Crabs. I forgot about them. Today, I use other means. (lowers voice) Enemies are all about us, you know... contemporary Redcoats... even worse... a lot worse and 'magic' has nothing to do with it.

Now let me go speak to Jonathon and Sarah. I'm sure they're at sixes and sevens. Let me tell them how goes it with their Billy and his vexacious spirit. After that, I'll come back and we'll continue our conversation.

With that, the old reprobate gets up to leave... heads toward the door... turns and says - 
Pig's blood and honey. Can you imagine such a thing? heh heh heh heh heh heh heh.

<more next time>

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MAGIC AND SCIENCE MIX ... 3/5/15

They laid Billy's body on a large stainless steel table. He was not actually dead, just in retreat. The entity was in control. I suppose the whole experience was rather like being the victim of a violent home invasion... tied up, gagged and watching helpless, as other hands violate your life.

Technicians wired him up, attaching sensors to all parts of his body. Luna was there, besides being a physician, she is a vampirina too after all. Look at her, in that white coat, her sandy colored hair tied back. I don't know where she hunts, or who she hunts. Maybe the Anti-Enchantment Bureau brings in victims for her. She's so clinical and practiced. Believe me. I've been a disembodied, spirit narrator (somewhat like the entity, but not remotely as old, or of such exotic background) a long time and I've never seen any other night-folk like her. Grace Kelly with fangs. Not lurid, comic book fangs, but neat, little sharp pointed teeth.

Doctor Franklin floated around behind all the action. He wasn't flying. Nothing like that. Rode his scooter... that little electric thing he has. Oh, he did put on a fresh, Philadelphia Eagles sweat suit.  The team made sure he had plenty of those. Some of them were sterile. But he could see what was going on. Barked directions every now and then. After centuries of scientific inquiry, what discipline didn't he know? Franklin was 'the Wizard,' so to speak. He had his hand in everything. 

Then they wheeled in the orangutan. Jamba was strapped down on his own stainless steel table, but he hadn't yet been sedated. And he seemed so sad, stretching his huge neck to look around and take it all in... rather like a human abducted by aliens. Orangutans are such quiet, abiding beasts. He makes faint, little moaning sounds. Those straps must really be strong. 

Blood tests disclosed they were both type O. humans and other Great Apes share most blood traits. Staffers decided to transfuse a bit of blood from one participant to the other. Not much. Just a little. In that way, the entity might grow confused and wander into the other host. Perhaps the greater strength of the orange ape might attract it?

I think magnetism played a part too. Spirits are made of energy, or they manifest as energy in our world, which is essentially the same thing. If the subtle magnetic fields 'round Billy's body and the ape's can be brought into synchronicity, the transfer might, more readily take place.

And it seemed the entity noticed. Great knots of flesh roiled under Billy's skin. Technicians rolled around the tall, pole-like magnets, the better to stabilize the field. If you've ever seen those outdoor heaters restaurants use to warm alfresco diners on chill evenings, you sort of know what they look like. 

But then Billy tensed... more than tensed... He convulsed, arching up from the table, as if his spine would break. His eyes bulged, like two, wet, blue-pink orbs. His body trembled. Luna bit into her lip, wiped a drop of blood on her finger tip and put it in his mouth. You know how efficacious small applications of night-folk blood can be. She also gave a drop to the orangutan to equalize their 'environments.' Must make things homey for that spirit thing.

Then they watched, as tiny, pale green praying mantises erupted all over Billy's sweat soaked skin....

<more next time>

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