The Classroom, or Winnie’s Story

“In Chapter Two, we learned how Dr. Radisson and his team of physicians were able to diagnose Klara with Huntington’s disease,” Ms. Preston stood at the front of the class room, her tiny stature made miniature by the black board that loomed monolithically behind her. Her clothes were the Government’s grey 50% wool pants with a black button-up shirt with a high collar, and her hair was just a tad longer than the Government standard for single female teachers (in violation of Chapter 12, Section HP.sft). Of course, I didn’t know that then. I just knew that she was slightly different than the other teachers I saw through my education.

“In Chapter 3, we learned how this disease affected Klara’s life and her capacity to make decisions. What do we learn from Klara’s mistakes?” The question hung in the air like a cloud of mustard gas. We students looked at each other uncomfortably. Someone would have to answer the question, and if the answer was wrong, it would mean all of us would be writing an essay about it. I don’t remember what I wanted to say, but it wasn’t the answer that Claudia Sheffield gave.

Her ghostly white hand sprang into the air. She stood with a solemn expression that drew all of her soft features downwards. “Her mistake was letting something transitional effect decisions that would affect others permanently.” When she finished speaking, she took a long breath and winced slightly, waiting.

“Very astute Claudia,” said Ms. Preston after a dramatic pause. Claudia’s spirits lifted to Heaven and her mouth curved into a smile. She was free from the essay that was sure to come. Ms. Preston, beaten, but not defeated, soldiered on.

“When Klara allowed a thief to steal from the factory, the author compels us to think that she had a moral obligation. What did the author insist, and why is he wrong?” Ms. Preston scanned the class like a machine gunner looking for a target. “Winston.”

I remember feeling my intestines turn into a puddle; my bowels wanted to release themselves as Ms. Preston’s brown eyes bored into mine. I searched my memory, clawing desperately at my recollections of Klara’s Conundrums. Ms. Preston was intense. She was a Goddess of Wisdom demanding a tithe of the knowledge I had gained. I read the book, and have read it twice since my youth, but I just didn’t know what to say. Winston Cunningham, seizing the opportunity to save the day, answered the question in my place. 

The door to the class room opened with a bang. Two police-persons entered, followed by a Government Official. The police-persons were dressed in their fine uniforms that were usually reserved for special occasions. Their side arms glistened in holsters slung across their double-breasted, black great coats. The Government Official was in the customary black and red suit (in accordance with Chapter 12, Sections UP.ppmf and UP.gom, respectively).

All the students placed their hands, palms down and fingers spread on their desktops. Never would you see children come so swiftly to attention! Ms. Preston stood quietly by, her hands fussing nervously with her illegal hair cut. The Government Official gave her a swift nod, and then placed his briefcase on Ms. Preston’s desk, popping it open.

“Children,” he said in a warm, practiced tone, “today is an important day in your lives. You should endeavor to keep it in your memories until the end of your days. Today, the Government has decreed that you will all select new names in accordance with the newest article in the Book of Law. It appears in Chapter 5, Sections N.m and N.f. In order to provide the Citizenry with a sense of shared identity, one not constrained by preconceived notions of gender or class, all names, starting with your generation, will now and hitherto be changed to those which no longer have said notions of gender.”

My classmates looked at each other, a mixture of fear and excitement on their faces. We never imagined that we’d be empowered in such a manner. To be able to pick your own name, even if it was just from a list, was an honor that I never thought I would have.

“Also, surnames will be changed in order to reflect your own achievements, as opposed to those of your forbearers. As such, as children, your surnames will be revoked. You will be assigned a new surname upon the completion of your education and entry into the working force.” The Government Official took a thick stack of papers from his briefcase and began to hand bunches of them to the head of each row of students in the classroom.

“This is Temporary Document 18972-NC. All Citizens between the ages of 10 and 18 must fill out this form. The form contains a list of viable names. Your old name and identification number must be entered in Box 1 and 2. Boxes 3 through 10 should reflect your address. Box 11 will reflect your new name,” instructed the Government Official mechanically. “Refusal to fill out Temporary Document 18972-NC will result in Termination of Citizenship.”

Quietly, we set about filling out the forms in front of us. Carefully, I filled in circles and checked boxes. Does your father work for the Government? Does your Mother work for the Government? Has either your mother or father spoken against the Government? Do you or others in your home use Termek Brand products? The process took well over an hour. The Government Official tolerantly answered our questions, even if the questions were ignorant or unwieldy.

“Why does the Government want to know if my bed sheets have Carlos Crab on them?” asked Winston Cunningham. I smirked. He might have known the answer to Ms. Preston’s question, but I knew the answer to his question: the Government has a right to our information. They offer protection, and in return, we offer obedience, like a child to its parents.

I didn’t know then that one of the animators of Carlos Crab was related to the Enemy. He had immigrated here legally, but had since been aiding the remainder of his family’s efforts to immigrate illegally. As a result, he was arrested and his Citizenship was Terminated. Owning Carlos Crab merchandise was a Factor 5 offense. Winston Cunningham received a Class 2 citation for inappropriate conduct and was given three days of detention.

When we were all done, the Government Official collected our forms and helped Ms. Preston fill out a new seating chart. When he left, the police-persons following him closely, Ms. Preston tried to carry on as though nothing had happened, but there was too much excitement; the class was buzzing. We all wanted to know what each other’s new names were. Soon enough, Ms. Preston caved into the pressure of our pleads and made a game of it.

Winston Cunningham was now Chance.

Claudia Sheffield was now Ume.

I took the name Winnie.

When I walked home, I walked purposefully and proudly. Ms. Preston told us that we were the first of a new generation. I was a member of Generation 1; we were the foundation for a better future. Suddenly, the world seemed like it was ours. With the stroke of a number 2 pencil, we were galvanized as an emergent culture.

When I got home, my flight of fancy crashed like a jet out of fuel. My father sat at the kitchen table with his metal lunch box opened. Unbeknownst to me, he had been fired from his job as a foreman in the steel mill. His apple sat, gleaming, on the table. His sandwich was half-eaten, and his thermos still released warm vapor into the air. My mother busily studded a ham with cloves, preparing it for a slow cooking process.

“I have a new name!” I announced proudly. My father didn’t respond. He simply chewed his sandwich.

“Is that so?” asked my mother, washing her hands with unscented soap.

“Yes. A man from the Government came. He gave us papers and everything. Ms. Preston says this is the dawn of a new era.” My excitement wasn’t contagious. I was crushed by my parents‘ indifference.

“You probably chose something brave sounding,” said my father. “Maybe Rutledge or Carpenter.” His disdain was palpable. When he looked at me, his face was expressionless, loveless.

“No.” I said, slinging my satchel onto the kitchen table. I wondered if that was what I should have done.

“Then what do we call you?” asked my father, jabbing his knife into his red apple, its juices spilling down his hand.

“You can still call me Winston if you want,” I said diplomatically.

“Can I now?” my father responded condescendingly. “But that wouldn’t be right, would it? Not lawful. A man must set an example. What is your name?”

“Winnie,” I said. It sounded foppish when I said it. The name seemed to lie on the table like a dead fish. “I picked it because it is like my name. You always said how important my name was.”

My father was quiet, respectful. My mother was busy.

“Do you like it? I can try another name,” I offered.

“No. You’ve picked what you’ve picked. Your name is yours now, Winnie.” When my father said it, he seemed to smile slightly. I started to feel foolish. I could feel the blood coloring my face.

“I can change it if you want,” I offered.

“A man can’t stop the times. He’ll be crushed if he tries.” was his response.

That night, I sat in bed and recalled the events of the day. I carved them into my memory with all the skill of a sculptor. This was the day that I started to become who I would be. This was the beginning of my liberation from my identity as Winston S. Johnson IX and began building the man I am today.

August and Minerva, Investigators of the Supernatural: The Gypsy (Part 7)

11

An old, homeless man sat on a bench far from Sigrid. She watched as a flock of pigeons descended on him, drawn by the stale baguette he held dearly between his grubby fingers. Clenching so tightly rubbed crumbs off the bread which tumbled to the ground, which drew the birds. The man flailed his arms and shouted; none of the tourists took notice. They dwelled in the shadow of Notre Dame De Paris, and a raving bum wouldn’t ruin their vacation. Sigrid simply smiled, knowing that sometimes what you hold draws unwanted attention.

The key was in knowing what you held, and using it to your benefit. She searched the crowd for August. He was an American, and she would notice him easily in the rolling tide of Europeans. His bewildered glances and shabby jeans that dragged on the ground gave him away. Sigrid crossed her long legs and gazed upwards, seeming nonchalant.

“Ms. Koenig?” asked August, adjusting his glasses like binoculars. Sigrid locked eyes with him, parting her lips in a wide, friendly smile. She imagined this was what vampires felt like as they lured their prey.

“Sigrid, please, August. No need for formality. Here, take a seat.” She indicated a spot on the bench next to her. The spot was just wide enough for August. Sigrid didn’t want to leave him too much room; she wanted him to smell her, to touch her slightly, and to be intrigued by her. She knew that he would take her bait; she learned a lot from the letters he sent her pursuant to the meeting.

When August sat next to her, he kept his hands on his lap, his fingers fidgeting slightly. He seemed nervous, and it was because he didn’t have the book. Sigrid’s scheme was panning out nicely. Her letters were enough to make August want to meet her for more reasons than The Vampire Folio. He certainly wanted to be her friend (perhaps more?) or he would not have taken a seat.

“How have you found Paris so far? Very beautiful, yes?” She asked, placing her mostly empty satchel on her lap. She could smell a fresh scent coming from August’s skin. He had just showered; his hair was still damp.

“It hasn’t been kind to me so far, I’m afraid. A witch hexed me, and then…” His pause filled Sigrid with glee. He didn’t want to disappoint her. “And then someone stole The Vampire Folio. They took it in the early morning. My partner and I tried to catch the thief, but we lost her. The city is a maze, a net cast over the land that a visitor can’t escape. I’m sorry.”

“I don’t know what to say. I wouldn’t expect someone to do something so brazen. Even so, they must have caught something on the hotel’s cameras.” Sigrid knew that nothing was caught on the cameras. She had erased the records herself.

“The cameras had an issue. Whoever stole the folio got to them before anyone else could. It suggests an inside job to me. Minerva’s checking the hallways for psychic traces of the book. The magical signature from the book is weak, but she’s very sensitive.” Sigrid placed her hand on August’s in consolation. She saw the pinkness flooding his face and knew that there was something she could exploit.

She knew August felt lonely and out of place. She knew that he wasn’t attached, and she knew that he was longing to make a connection with somebody. Sigrid considered what she knew of Tabitha’s plan, and the subtle changes that had taken place. With Quaashie dead and The Vampire Folio out of her hands, she was feeling exposed. If it came down to it, she couldn’t stand against Thorkell without help. She fought an icy shiver that gripped her spine when she momentarily thought of her old master’s cold stare.

“I might be able to help you find it. I know the city fairly well; I spent a year here after college.” Standing, she brushed off her skirt and slung her satchel over her shoulder. “You have my number. I have a lot to do this afternoon, but tonight would work out well,” she said, leaving August behind.

She went over her mental checklist and crossed off another item. She added a few minor pieces of business, but was glad that everything seemed to be going her way. Next, she would have to pay a visit to Claude Hooper-Bukowski.

12

August sat serenely by the Seine. The curving stone stairs offered little in comfort, but they did offer a sense of perspective. They belonged here, but he did not. August was always drawn to stairs when he was an art student. He liked their regularity; the interplay of shadows and lines, and the slight sense of foreboding appealed to him. As people came and went, they took no special notice of him, and he was thankful.

His entire time in Paris was nothing but ill fortune for him. Hexed and vexed, he sat and considered the speech he was scheduled to make in a half hour. He’d talk to a meeting room filled with magicians younger than him, telling them about how he has coped with ending the existence of supernatural creatures. Months ago, it seemed like a great idea, but now he wasn’t so sure. Much of his coping had been simple avoidance; if he didn’t think about it, it didn’t needle him in the slightest.

He wondered how Mr. Kane managed to do it. To be so cold to another living thing seemed more inhuman than a vampire. In the corner of his eye, August saw a young woman wearing an old-fashioned suit with a high collar. He thought that it had to have belonged to her great-grand father: it was patched lovingly with bright bits of fabric that contrasted the dull brown tweed.

The girl’s hair was wild and red as a fox. Her make-up was once carefully applied and whimsical, but it had smudged and run. She was an Elf, and she seemed miserable. She walked to the bank of the river and looked down at its depths. She leaned forward, and took a step. August was surprised at how quickly he could call a Bridge of Faith; the Elf seemed shocked when her step landed her on an invisible platform rather than in watery oblivion. She turned to face August, her eyes narrowed and accusatory.

“How dare you!” she shouted in English. “What gives you the right?” she continued. As she stepped further out onto the Seine, the Bridge of Faith supported her. In a fit of futility, she simply sat, hovering above the water on the invisible platform.

“I’m sorry.” said August, unsure of what he should say. “I thought you were trying to kill yourself.” Their scene began to attract onlookers like a car accident. Passing tourists gawked, pointing at the floating Elf and snapping photos.

“I was,” she said, turning her head away.

“Not today, it’s too nice,” said August, still operating in unfamiliar territory. The Elf simply sat in a huff, crossing her arms. “I’m not good at this kind of thing,” admitted August. “I’m sure that we can sort things out. Just come back to the walkway. We can talk.”

She sat inconsolably for a few more minutes before she stomped her way back to dry land. The crowd around them applauded gleefully. Some straggled behind to see if there would be a kiss. The Bridge of Faith that August erected kept her still floating about a quarter inch over the earth.

“Are you happy, mister?” she asked. The Bridge of Faith that August erected kept her still floating about a quarter inch over the earth, affording August a view of her violet eyes that shimmered with flecks of scarlet.

“You must have more to say than that, or else you wouldn’t have come back,” said August daringly.

“What do you want me to say? The dream’s over and my kind is doomed. One less won’t matter,” the Elf spoke softly, sadness slowly replacing her anger. “America’s a joke, Europe failed me, and I can’t go back to…”

“Well, you can’t go anywhere if you are on the other side of the lawn. Maybe there’s a solution,” said August.

“I’m all pointy ears,” joked the Elf darkly. August felt his ego deflating like a soufflé: he hadn’t planned this far and had no avenue of escape. Her eyes darkened when he didn’t respond. “Well, thanks for the help anyway,” she said, “At least I know you aren’t all the same.”

“I know someone who might be able to offer you some perspective,” said August after a short pause. “She’s much better with this kind of thing than I am.”

 Part 6

Part 8 (Coming Soon)

Seasonal Photo Project (Winter)

One of my goals for this year is to get back into photography. In order to attain this goal, I will be attempting a photographic project once each season for the year of 2010. My first project will be called “Upper, Lower, Disjointed, and Mixed.”

The impetus for “Upper, Lower, Disjointed, and Mixed” was the photography of The Beatles by Robert Freeman, specifically for the cover of A Hard Day’s Night. While the studio album’s cover featured a variety of full faces with expressions, the soundtrack cover featured abbreviated images that captured just half of each subject’s face.

What I intend to explore with this project is the relationship between the upper and lower halfs of the human face, and what happens when they are divorced from each other. The final project will include:

Full face portraits of each subject in black and white, taken with a variety of expressions. These will be small format and displayed together.

Partial face portraits of each subject in black and white, taken with a variety of expressions. These will be displayed in a fashion that maintains the association with the upper and lower parts of the subject’s face, though later images in the series will mix the emotions in the upper and lower portions.

Mixed partial face portraits of matched subjects in black and white, taken with a variety of expressions. These will be displayed in a fashion that disassociates the upper and lower faces of each subject, purposfully confusing the upper face of one subject with the lower face of another.    

The project will be undertaken between January 9th and March 20th 2010 C.E.

~H

Holiday Break

I have been laboring under the delusion that I’d get some writing done during the holiday season. However, like last year, everything falls by the wayside, swept away by the yuletide. As such, I think that in the future, I will just take the month of December off from my literary labors.

As such, everything is to be continued until next year.

I hope you all have had a wonderful holiday, and that the New Year is a fruitful one.

~H

The Krampus

Krampus

The good children rest,

All snuggled in bed

While the bad ones are

Beaten by Krampus instead.

*

He stalks the long night

With his chains all a-rattle

Shepherding sinners

Like blubbery cattle

*

He birches the naughty,

But spares the good

On his yearly travel

Through your neighborhood

*

When Saint Nicholas knocks,

The good children will sing,

He’ll smile and nod

And give them some thing

*

But if they are bad.

The Krampus arrives,

And it is into his sack

For the rest of their lives.

*

So beware of the Krampus!

Don’t do bad things.

Take it from me:

His hazel rod stings.

August and Minerva, Investigators of the Supernatural: The Gypsy (Part 6)

Mr. Kane sat at a flimsy table, uncomfortably clothed in a three piece suit. The plastic chair was making his back ache, and Professor Langley still had enough wind in him to drive a storm across the ocean. He was giving a labyrinthine answer to a direct question: “How has the British government’s licensing procedure changed over the last decade, and how has it affected independent investigators.” Kane’s answer was simple.

“They have tied the hands of well meaning investigators and opened the door for charlatans that run pyramid schemes disguised as ‘Supernatural Suppression Societies’. It has been a load of shit, and it won’t get better.” The crowd reacted poorly to most of Kane’s answers, and he didn’t care. Their discontented rumblings just meant that he was telling the truth.

Kane closed his dark, abyssal eyes. Folks put make-up on the dead ‘cause they want to pretend that they’re still fine. Just sleeping. The way I see it, people hate the truth. The truth is not a pretty girl with a swan neck. Even if it was, she’d have strangling marks on that nice neck. No, the truth is a gorgon with a bulging tongue and dead eyes. Kane opened his eyes and studied the others on his panel.

They were a sad lot, mostly fat and retired. Old Allard sat on the far end of the table, dozing lightly, lost in a cloud of dreams. Next to him was the faded flower that used to be called Violet Rose. Nowadays, no one really bothered calling her anything.

The Professor was the youngest of them and even he had more wrinkles than a baby Shar Pei. His frantic gestures and grand words were most of what was left of a once brilliant mind that had all ready started to atrophy. That could easily be August in thirty years.

 
He turned his eyes on himself, seeing a man that looked like a tiger in a zoo. Proud, vital, and out of his element. He suit was tight; the wool was making his flesh crawl. His mouth was dry. He smelled the stink of humanity all around him. His tanned hand tensed into a fist as he began to feel anxious. He stroked the revolver at his side and it reassured him.

He scanned the audience, some of whom were falling asleep as the Professor lectured the crowd on the finer points of form 27-1-AB/9002, which allowed a private supernatural investigator access to Her Majesty’s private library. He lauded it like the Second Coming, despite there being no occult books of interest in Her Majesty’s library that weren’t all ready available to even Tom, Mabel, and Jackson.

His eyes moved to his silver pocket watch. He ran his thumb on the embossed wolves that cavorted on the circumference of the lid. Popping open the watch, he read the time, and groaned when he realized he had another hour to spend in the convention hall.

“Elijah Kane, Sir?” asked a waif-like girl dressed in an old-fashioned suit with a high collar. “What do you feel about the treatment of Elves in America compared to the treatment of Elves in France?” Kane drew his full attention to the girl, and looked deep into her golden eyes. She warily backed away like a person would back away from a rabid dog.

“I think that the treatment of Elves in America is despicable. Holding them and breeding them like endangered species is wrong. It is nothing short of eugenics. Their laboratory lives are wasted, particularly since captive Elves life about a quarter of their natural lifespan. In France, they are at least allowed to die out like the obsolete species they are.” Kane spoke doggedly, his tone indomitable.

“You can’t mean that,” said Violet, stirring weakly from her seat. “A people are judged by their acts, especially their acts towards the least of its members. Elves have given much to French culture, and allowing their species to die is an unallowable and unforgivable sin.”

“Yes, I agree with Miss. Rose…” said the Professor before Kane interrupted him.

“The sin is the one being committed in America! They are genetically altering the Elves through their experiments. When the day that Elves in America are free comes, their species will be indistinct from humanity,” argued Kane vehemently.

“See here Kane, we…” said the Professor before Violet Rose interrupted him.

“But isn’t that what you want? A society free of supernaturals? No more werewolves, no more vampires. Why are the Elves free from your wrath?” Violet’s neck was turning pink with anger.

“Vampires are a blight. Werewolves are a blight. Elves are the best of all of us. Most are incapable of evil. Show me a vampire that doesn’t harm society, and I’ll show you a vampire that has hidden his past.” The hall fell silent; the only sound in the quiet was Allard’s soft snoring.

“I suppose we must agree to disagree then?” said the Professor as he folded his hands over his stomach. Both Kane and Rose glared at the Professor. The girl in the audience sat, her head dipped shamefully. With difficulty, the panel discussion went on, but the audience seemed to lose its enthusiasm. When the audience broke apart, Kane was left sitting on the stage with Violet Rose.

“That was low, Vi,” grumbled Kane. “What do you think Sasha would say if she was still here?”

“She’d say that her husband’s a damn fool that’s trying to purify the world with fire, even if innocents need to die.” replied Violet.

“Everyone needs to die sometime,” retorted Kane weakly, “Even Allard, someday.”

“These are lives, Eli. These are real people with real contributions to society. Even now, medical research is being done on vampire blood and its disease fighting ability. Have you heard about Bukowski’s New Treatment? He has developed a comprehensive program designed to rehabilitate criminal vampires and help them reintegrate into society. His work with Sebottendorff has been miraculous.”

“Claus Von Sebottendorff? As a man he was a monster, and as a vampire he is a fiend.”

“Even so, if life can be preserved, even unlife, it is worth it. Our time here is precious. You of all people know that.” Violet Rose took Kane’s hand and held it with each of her own.

“Which is why they must die. No matter how many treatments there are, no matter what research will be done, at the end of the day a duck is a duck.” retorted Kane, pulling away from the fragile looking woman.

“And what does Rebecca think of this attitude?” asked Violet.

“She agrees. The government took her ten years ago, just before she finished college. Seems like half-Elf is enough to get you taken into a program. Of course, you didn’t know that, did you Vi?” Kane’s words were acrid.

“I’m sorry Eli! I didn’t know,” apologized Violet frantically.

“At least they let me see her once a week. She’s doing well in that damned commune. If you’ll let me go, I have business to attend to. Just ’cause I’m on the old fogies panel, it doesn’t mean I’m retired.”

“Eli, I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah, you sure are.” Kane pushed past her brashly.

“Elijah Kane, don’t be a damned fool!”

“What do you want me to do?” raved Kane, “I tried to walk the narrow, but my balance got bad. Now all I have is revenge.”

“Don’t leave like this Eli. I know you are better than this.” Violet Rose ordered, despite being dwarfed by Kane.

“Good bye Vi. Good bye and good luck. Tell Charles I said hi.” Kane began to walk away. He felt Violet’s eyes boring into his back. She was watching him, probably crying.

“He’s dead Kane. Just like you’ll be if you keep on this maniac path.” Violet’s voice wavered as she called out. “And don’t think you can fight your way out of Hell.”

Kane hesitated for just a moment before he disappeared in the crowd.

Part 7

August and Minerva, Investigators of the Supernatural: The Gypsy (Part 5)

9

Sigrid was a tall, Norwegian beauty. Her shoulders were narrow, her legs long, and her posture rigid as a runway model. Draped in high-end, well tailored clothes, no one would suspect that she seldom had anyone to impress. Most days, she worked in her pajamas while lounging in her sparse apartment in Vardø. Her small group of friends included a smattering of artists and radar technicians; people that wouldn’t care that she could read a sentence and be able to devise everything about the person who wrote it.

The IGPS categorized her as a Bibliomancer, though she hardly considered herself kin or kith to those strange fortunetellers that used books to forecast the future. She knew that she was much more than a garden variety con-artist that spouted vague statements and claimed they were visions from beyond.

She walked down the Champs-Elysees, peering at the tall, colorful window displays of Louis-Vuitton, and considered stopping in. She had plenty of Euros on hand, and a lot more in the bank. She had a reputation for honest work; she had managed to salvage ancient spells from the hands of Islamic extremists and transcribed Atlantian texts, but it was her illicit doings which lined her pockets. Black mail came as second nature to someone that found secrets as easily as she did.

She considered the shabby satchel that hung limply over her shoulder. It went with her ensemble as well as paint splatters went with fur. It looked worn and worthless, but it held a priceless treasure: The Vampire Folio.

At a glance, it was a simple document about vampire attacks during the Middle Ages, but it was truly much more than that. It secretly held the names of many powerful vampires, several of whom would be willing to pay handsomely to keep their lives and ages hidden.

Most world governments had long placed restraints on vampire society. Each vampire was required to register with the government. Every hundred years or so, they were required to change identities, often losing their lifetime of accumulated wealth. Seeing as a vampire didn’t worry about many mortal expenses, it wouldn’t take much for them to amass gigantic estates. In order to keep the mortal economy moving, it was prudent to keep wealth moving from the hands of vampires, where it would normally stagnate.

With the names of a few choice vampires, Sigrid would be able to amass a gigantic estate of her own. First, she would need to let her targets know what she had, and that she was not one to be trifled with. However, she needed powerful allies in order to bring her scheme to fruition.

Sadly avoiding the entry to Louis-Vuitton, she kept her eyes facing forward. There would be time for fashion later; she had the most important meeting of her life awaiting her in the Metro station across from the Arc de Triumphe. As she carefully crossed the street, she eyed Emperor Napoleon’s monument with its trumpeting, triumphant angels. Soon, the angels would trumpet for her success.

She made her way underground, leaving the light of day at the top of an incredibly long flight of stairs that seemed to lead up to Heaven and down to Hell. She slowed her stride, glancing swiftly from side to side, visually sweeping the narrow tunnel. She could hear the sound of a guitar in the distance, but it drew closer. The playing was melancholic and hypnotic as the chords progressed from D to E flat, then to A. It sounded familiar, and it sounded evil.

“You are her then?” asked a man draped in a long, black shroud. His pallid fingers strummed his guitar dexterously. His hands continued, as though possessed of an intelligence of their own, as he spoke. “You are her, and I am him. Let us see the book then.”

“What is the word?” she asked.

“Word?” he asked, “There is no word. She told me of no word. Who are you? Perhaps you are not who I was expecting.” A fanged smile never left his face.

“There is no word. None, save Tabitha. She sent us to meet each other.” Sigrid pulled the Vampire Folio from the satchel. “She said that once I was done with it that it was to go to Camille and leave it with him.”

“Lucky for you that I am he.” His playing stopped abruptly. “The Gypsy chose well when she picked you. You are punctual.” He adjusted his guitar on his gaunt frame, letting it hang by his side. “If you will put it in your bag, I will take it away.”

“First, I need answers. I need to know why you are my contact instead of Quaashie. He and I have a past. You aren’t a player in this.” Her tone was sharp and accusatory.

“Quaashie is dead. Gunned down by an American. We will have revenge on him soon. Do you have news about the witch and her man?”

“They survived the night. I’m meeting with August this afternoon,” she smiled grimly, “Ironically, it was my guarantee of safety. If I don’t meet him at the cathedral by four, he’ll have no trouble finding where I am.”

“Using the enemy to protect you from an ally? Are you sure you aren’t a vampire?” asked Camille, amused.

“No, but I learned from one,” replied Sigrid, “and he will pay for what he did.”

To Part 6

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Look.

Over there.

On the right.

You can get informed when I post new entries.

I know you want to…

~H

August and Minerva, Investigators of the Supernatural: The Gypsy (Part 4)

7

August kneeled on the floor, his pallid chest and back covered with whorls and symbols that Minerva painted on him with ketchup from the hotel’s kitchen. She glanced back and forth at the computer screen, transcribing the image that Tobias had sent from America. As Minerva smeared a wide line of ketchup under the helix of August’s ear, August jerked away, repulsed by the sensation.

“Do you have to put it there?” he asked, feeling cranky and sounding irritable.

“Yes. You don’t want to end up like the monk Hoichi, do you?” responded Minerva pleasantly. When he saw her smile, August couldn’t help but feel that she was enjoying torturing him.

“No. I’d like to keep my ears, thank you. Then again, this isn’t quite the same.” August concentrated on the rising moon that was looming in the window, ignoring the sensation of Minerva’s delicate touches along the nape of his neck. He was glad that Tobias was awake to receive their call, and that he proposed a solution so swiftly. Now, August was hoping that the solution would work.

“It is similar enough. The symbols will provide the same protective properties, coupled with a strong, repulsive force that will push the Hex imp away,” explained Minerva. “When the imp is driven off, you will be invisible to it. Unable to fulfill its purpose, the Hex imp will run off. If we follow it, the beastie should lead us right to the person that set it on you.”

“And if it doesn’t work?” asked August meekly.

“Then you will smell like tomatoes. It seems like a worthwhile risk.” A ketchup bottle burped up the last of its contents, and the ritual was complete. August clasped his hands together, then separated them, bending his fingers into the Karana Mudra. He could feel the imp’s tail tighten like an anaconda around his neck. Soon, he found himself struggling for breath. He could hear Minerva’s reassurances, but they seemed to be receding into the blackness that was overtaking him.

“Keep your focus!” He could hear Minerva shouting from very far away. “Breathe in!” she said, and the breath alluded him. His head began to pound, and he felt panic rising in his blood. He fought the urge to stand, using every ounce of his will to remain kneeling.

Suddenly, his breath poured into his lungs. The imp had finally been driven off by the ritual.

“Keep still. It is nearly over,” said Minerva. “It is visible; keep still.” August did what he was told, happy to breathe freely. “It is going for the door,” said Minerva excitedly, “Let’s go.”

8

Just before sunrise, August and Minerva left the hotel. August, wearing a shirt over his ketchup stained skin stalked ahead of Minerva, following the rat-like scurrying of the Hex Imp. On an ornate bridge spanning the Seine, August and Minerva watched as the diminutive creature crawled towards a tent that was standing under the next bridge.

“They have enough bridges, don’t you think?” mused August, feeling exhilarated just to be alive and on the offensive. “Enough bridges and enough water and enough imps. Twice! Twice I nearly suffocated. If we go to any opera houses, I’ll need to keep my hand level with my neck.”

“I don’t know if you need to worry about a Punjab lasso in the shadows just now,” said Minerva, “It is going to be a bright, sunny day, and I don’t see a deformed genius in sight.”

The flap of the tent opened, and the imp scuttled inside. Moments later, August could see the girl clearly when she left the tent, walking determinedly towards the Champs de Mars and hotel where he and Minerva were staying. He wondered what the Hex Imp told her; he knew the imp wouldn’t be able to communicate what the ritual was, as they were incapable of speech. With purposeful strides, she walked along the level, wide street, and August wondered if she was going to try to finish what she started.

“We’ll need to stay a good distance away,” warned Minerva. “We don’t want to arouse any suspicion. Besides, if something happened, we don’t have many courses of action. We’re respected back home, but we have no jurisdiction here at all.”

“Maybe we should find someone that does?” offered August as he walked, trying to seem as casual as a man could with ketchup painstakingly painted on his face.

“The police don’t work with the paranormal at all, aside from keeping the most dangerous elements hidden. It wouldn’t do their tourist trade any good if they let the public know that they have the largest population of witches and third largest population of vampires in the world.” As Minerva spoke, August felt the puzzle pieces fall into place. While they were chasing the Hex Imp and shadowing the witch, they left their hotel room empty. In their rush, they didn’t notice that they left their room’s door ajar. Realizing that the Vampire Folio was protected only by a few illusions, a ward or two, and a safe door, August quickened his pace. He hadn’t told anyone except Minerva and Tobias that he had brought the folio to Paris with him. That’s when he remembered the third person who knew the Vampire Folio was in Paris: Sigrid Koenig.

To Part 5

More Photo Fun

I have been slowly getting back into photography. Recently, my wife dyed her hair pink (with some help from me). I took some photos yesterday, and this afternoon, we went out for a picnic and I took some more pictures. I feel that the contrast between the pink of her hair and turquoise of her scarf is particularly striking.