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ghost queen Jul 26
Séraphine, Vignette nº 7, Le Cercueil

I was on the phone talking to the museum. Ground-penetrating radar had found what looked like a coffin at the Lutetian layer, and they were in the process of digging down to it. I was telling Sylvain to use the new 4K video cameras to record every detail when the doorbell rang. I’d left the door ajar, knowing Madame Pinard, the concierge was bringing by an adjuster to inspect and cut a check for the repair of the leak in the ceiling that had washed away chunks of plaster, now laying on the hardwood floor in the bedroom, exposing the wooden rafters of the attic.

“May we come in Monsieur,” she shouted from down the hall in the foyer. “Yes, Madame, please come in,” I shouted back, with more exasperation in my voice than I wanted to express. “I am on the phone with the musee Madame, please show him to the bedroom.”

I saw Madame and the adjuster come in out of the corner of my eye and turned my head to see them as they walked the stairs to the bedrooms. The adjuster was not a man, but a woman, which was surprising in France. The first thing I noticed about her, was her wide round birthing hips, what the kids, called thick. She wore a long-sleeve white silk blouse, black pencil skirt, and the traditional, obligatory Parisian back seamed stockings. I didn’t make out her face but caught sight of her red hair tied in a tight bun on the back of her head, and the milky white skin of her neck.

“Damien, are you listening,” said Sylvain, the dig manager on the other end of the line. “Yes, I replied, “l was distracted by my landlady bringing an adjuster into the apartment. Yes, I’ll come down as soon as they leave.”

After a few minutes, Madame and the adjuster came back down. The adjuster walked into the foyer to wait. Madame came into the living room and said she’d have a crew out tomorrow to start repairs. As madame turned and walked down the hall, I got a better look at the adjuster. She was pure Celt, with red hair, white skin, dark brown doe eyes that looked black, high cheekbones, and the sharp straight nose of a Greek statute.

Besides her stunning beauty, I noticed her necklace, a traditional golden Celtic torc, which signified the wearer as a person of high rank. I’d never seen a person wearing one. I’d only seen one on a statue, The Dying Gaul in Le Louvres. How so very interesting I thought to myself.  

As she was talking to Madame and turning to leave, she made eye contact. She tilted in acknowledgment and goodbye. I nodded back and she was gone. I wished I could have gotten a chance to talk to her, maybe even ask her for an aperitif at the corner bistro. Oh well, c’est la vie.

-------

I went to the dig at the La Crypt at 12:30-ish talked to Sylvain for a bit and went down to the lower levels to see it for myself. The area was gridded out and several cameras on tripods were recording. The team was within centimeters front the top, and so put down their trowels and used a high-pressure water and suction hoses to remove the rest of the topsoil. The top came into view, the excess water was ****** away. Sponges were used to clear and clean away the mud.

The stone was obviously Lutetian limestone, finely sanded and polished. The lid was craved, which first glance, looked like Norse runes and one Celtic knot. “Take pics and send them to religious studies,” I said half to myself, half to Sylvain. How strange to have Norse and Celt iconography together I thought to myself.

It was late when I exited the metro station. The air was bitterly cold, my breath appearing and disappearing around me like a mystic cloud.

I was tired, exhausted from digging, and was seeing things in the corner of my eye that I chalked up to aberrations of a fatigued mind. That is until I walked past the Boise de Boulogne. In a dark recess, along the tree line, I saw what looked like a faintly glowing woman in a white dress. My first reaction was horror, remembering all the monster movies I’d seen as a child. Then quickly, my adult mind kicked in and rationalized it away as an artsy late night photography session, which is common around Paris. The sting of the cold refocused my attention and I hurriedly resumed my walk home.

I was tired, muddy, and had to take a shower before throwing myself into bed. I showered, dried off, and pulled back the new, thick duvet I’d bought for winter. The moon was full, beaming softly, barely illuminating the dark bedroom, as I cracked opened a window to let a small amount of fresh cold air into the humid stale room.

I slid under the duvet. I liked the cold, it reminded me of camping in the mountains with my old man and being snug in our down sleeping bags as we talked half the night away. I quickly fell asleep.

I half awoke, sensing a presence. I opened my eyes and saw a woman, ****, standing at the end of my bed, enveloped in a faint blue luminescence. She looked at me with big doe eyes. I watched her watching me, trying to figure out if I was dreaming or not.

She crawled on to the bed. I couldn’t feel her as she made her up the bed. She straddled me. I saw glint around her neck and saw she was wearing a torc, and realized who she was.

Her face was centimeters from mine. Her eyes burned with ferocity, intensity, and anger. I looked back up at her, fear welling up inside of me. She looked down at me. Her penetrating eyes, looking into my soul. I could feel her in my head, my mind.

She felt my fear, and without a word, just the look in her eyes, reassured me, calmed me, and my body and mind relaxed as if a nurse had given me a shot of morphine.

She touched her lips to mine, and felt the heat of her beath, smelled her dewy scent. I didn’t move. I knew I was prey. I knew what she wanted, and let her take it.

She slid her tongue into my mouth, and I gently ****** on it. She ****** up my lower lip, biting it playfully. She tasted sweet, fresh, like spring water. I couldn’t get enough of her. I wanted more. I kissed her harder, deeper, and felt myself slide to the edge of sleep, no longer sure what was a dream, or what was real.

She pulled back the duvet, grabbed my ****, and stroked it till it was painfully hard. She kissed it, put it in her mouth, and ****** it. Her head bobbing up and down. She’d stop, bite the head, and use her teeth to scrape up and down the shaft till I winched and yelled out in pain.

I started to moan, my body tightening, and arched, thrusting deeper into her mouth, coming as she raked her nails hard down the side of my chest. To my surprise, she didn’t spit out but swallowed my ***, licking excess from around her lips.

--------

I opened my eyes and was blinded by sunlight streaming in through the open windows and curtains. What the ****, I thought to myself, I never sleep this late. It was always dark when I wake. And the birds, chirping in the trees outside my window, were loud, and grating on my nerves.  

I slowly got out of bed. My body ached, my lower lip hurt, and my **** was sore. I grabbed my **** and immediately released it in pain. It was raw as if I’d had ***. I was definitely confused. My eyes darted from side to side as I tried to make sense and remember last night. I left the dig, came home, showered, and went to bed.

I trudged to the kitchen and made coffee, all the while, racking my brain for some clue as to why I felt like ****. I poured a cup, leaned back on the counter, and sip the coffee. I shook my head, placing my hand on my hip, and felt a sharp burning. I looked down and saw blood on my hand and side. I went to the bathroom mirror and saw fingernail marks down both sides of my chest. I just stared.

I had no idea, no clues as to how these happened. I jumped into the shower and washed off, bandaged up the bleeding scratches with paper towels and tape, dressed, and went to the cafe at the corner.

Despite the cold, I sat on the terrace, ordered coffee, bread, butter, and jam. I looked at my phone. It was 8:08. I looked at my text messages and emails for some clue as to what happened last night.

Breakfast came, and I sipped the coffee, staring out into the street. The waiter walked past me. “Oui madame, what would you like this morning,” he said. “Cafe et croissant,” she said. The waiter turned and walked back inside. I turned my head to the side for a quick look and blinked twice. It was the redheaded adjuster from yesterday.

“Bonjour M. Delacroix,” she said. “Bonjour Madame,” I instinctively replied. There was an awkward pause.  “I am Brigitte, Brigitte Dieudonné,” she said softly.

We small talked over breakfast and when I tab came, paid, and said, “I headed to the office.” “It is the weekend monsieur. “Yes,” I replied, “I work at an archeological dig on Ile de la Cite. The crypte.” “I am headed that way myself, do you mind if I walk with you,” she asked.

We walked to the metro station, down the stairs, through the turnstile, and onto the quay. The train came, the doors hissed open, and we strode in. The train was full of Chinese tourists and it was standing room only. I grab a pole and Brigitte did the same as she squeezed up beside me.

The train jolted forward and Brigitte bumped into me. As the train smoothed out, she kept leaning into me. Her derriere in my crouch. I could feel her body through her coat. I was getting turned on. As the trained curved around a curve, it rocked back and forth. Her *** bumping and grinding against my now hard ****. Could she feel my hard-on through the coats? She half-turned her head a gave me a coquettish smile. She knew I thought to myself.

We exited La Cité metro station, on to Place Louis Lépine. Before I could say anything, she said she’d like to see the dig. “Sure,” I said, and we walked to the La Crypt. We walked down the stairs to glass doors and pass the touristy exhibits and displays, to the back, behind the green painted plywood wall. Sylvain and several grad students were standing over and around the coffin. Two of them were in the pit setting up a portable x-ray machine, one with a still camera, another with a video camcorder, and the rest looking down at their tablets.

Brigitte and I walked to the edge. The coffin’s lid had been clean. The runes and Celtic knot were clearly visible. “Danger, death, mother,” Brigitte said. Sylvain turned his head, and said, “she is right, danger, death, mother according to the religious studies guys.” “How do you know that,” I asked. “It’s in all the teenage vampire movies,” she replied grinning.

“The top one is an inverse Thurisaz, which is means danger. The second one is an inverse Algiz, which means death. The knot is Celtic for mother, and the dot in the heart means she had one daughter,” Brigitte said trailing off.

“It looks you’ve got it under control Sylvain. I have an appointment. Brigitte can I walk you back to la place,” I said.

We walked to la place and stopped at the metro entrance. “Can I have your number,” I asked? “Yes, you may, if you promise to call monsieur Delacroix,” she said smiling girlishly. She took my phone from my hand and typed in her number and dialed. Her phone rang. “I have your monsieur, Delacroix. A bientot,” she said. We did la bise and she was off.
Night was falling, a full bright silver moon was rising, and Seraphine’s hunger had become unbearable. She needed to feed, had to have young fresh female blood, to stay alive and young.

Science had caught up with the reason vampires needed to feed on the youngest, preferably baby’s blood. In 1866 a Frenchman named Paul Bert had conjoined rat’s circulatory systems in a process called parabiosis, and thus the Prize of Experimental Physiology from the French Academy of Science.

In 2012, Cambridge University’s Julia Ruckh found old mice cojoined to young mice physically and mentally rejuvenated, becoming younger, smarter, and more energetic. Subsequent research discovered proteins in the plasma caused the rejuvenation. News outlets had proclaimed, “fountain of youth discovered in ordinary plasma.”

Seraphine needed the youngest, which has the highest concentration of rejuvenation proteins and hormones;  the purest, which is virus-free, and female, which has the highest levels of estrogen and progesterone.

Ideally, a baby girl’s blood would be best, but in today’s modern society, killed babies drew attention. The next best and the pragmatic thing was a 15-year-old runaway girl. L’ Association Assistance et Recherche de Personnes Disparues (ARPD), estimates 1000s of Parisienne girls, ages 10 to 18, runaway each year due to ****** and or physical abuse, ending up on the street, and having survival *** in 48 hours or less for food and or protection. And few if anybody cared. They disappeared, never to be found, presumed dead from a ****** overdose, or stabbed in a fight for food, money, or drugs.

Since runaways had high levels of disease due to survival ***, ****, and ****** addiction, Seraphine focused her attention on young troubled Arab girls living in the Habitation à Loyer Modéré (HLM) or projects of the 93rd, the department number of Seine-Saint-Denis, the poorest, predominantly Maghreb Islamic Arab banlieues of Paris.

Seraphine would undo her ponytail, letting her raven black hair cascade down around her shoulders, so she could fly around and into the projects at night landing on rooftops, listening for arguments, yelling, or shouting of eahira (*****), waqha (****), or haram (forbidden). When she heard those words, she knew a father was forcing old-world customs and religion on his born and raised in France daughter. The daughter, going to secular French public school, knew neither Arabic nor Islam, rebelled, wanting to live a secular, feminist rather than a submissive religious life.

Seraphine had found this month’s mark. She focused her superhuman hearing and sight on a tenth-floor open balcony window of the building across the street.

She could see an older man dressed in the traditional white dishdasha tunic, and taqiyah skull cap worn to evening prayers, yelling and throwing his hands in the air. Further in the flat, Seraphine could see a girl, crying. The man yelled waqha, waqha, then slapped her, and she fell to the floor. An old woman pulled the man back, as the girl got up and ran out the door.

Seraphine knew how this would play out and where the girl was headed. Four blocks away was the Lycée Général et Technologique, which housed a 24-hour crisis center for teens facing physical and or ****** abuse, pregnancy, homosexuality, ****** addiction, or homelessness.

As foreseen, the girl burst out the front doors of the HLM, running, crying down the street. Seraphine leaped from the 13-floor building into the air, silently following the girl like a bird of prey. The girl walked down Rue Bonnevide to Rue Guy Moquet, taking a shortcut through a wooded park.

Seraphine flew down to the ground, landing without a sound, and followed the girl from a distance. She could smell her youth, see her round hips and long shiny hair. When the girl had walked deep into the dark and silent park, Seraphine sprang forward like a puma, tackling the girl to the ground, and slitting her throat before she could scream.

Seraphine savored the ****, drinking the squirting blood from the carotid artery, relishing the warm fresh blood. The girl, in shock, blinked rapidly, trying to process what had just happened to her. She tried to speak but gurgled only blood, tears of fear started streaming down her cheeks. She knew she was dying, was afraid of dying, and wished her father was here to protect her, and make it all go away.

The blood slowed to a trickle. The girl had bled out and her body died. Seraphine continued to drink, ******* harder to get the remaining blood. The girl’s body convulsed then stilled as her brained slowly and finally died.

Seraphine had fed and would be satiated till another full moon.  She got up and licked her lips of residual blood. Her clothes were drenched in sweat and blood. She looked at the girl’s dead body, admiring her clear complexion, and big brown doe eyes, but felt no remorse for the ****.

She picked up the girl’s body in her arms, jumped into the night sky, and flew 65 kilometers northeast of Paris to La Foret De Compiegne in la department d’Oise, a secluded and rural part of northern France. Dead center in the forest lies Saint-Jean-aux-Bois, a small, and forgotten farming village of septuagenarian and octogenarian.

Seraphine flew to a farm a kilometer outside of the village. As she neared the farm, she could smell the putrid stench of pig ****. She started her descent, dropping the girl’s body, which hit the ground with a thud, in the barnyard, as she gently touched down.

The farm was dark, the only light was that of the full moon. She heard a rustling coming from the farmhouse. She saw an old man walking her way, holding a dim flamed oil lamp. He did not look at her, only at the ground, afraid of what would happen if he looked her in the eyes.

Seraphine grabbed the girl’s body by the hair and dragged it to the main pigpen, and threw the body over the fence and into the pit of sleeping pigs. The body hit a pig, startling it out of its sleep, squealing, waking up the other pigs, and realizing they had been fed fresh meat. The pigs sheared the flesh off the bones, then chewed and ground the bones. Within a couple of hours, there would be no trace of the young girl’s body. She was just another disappeared runaway.

Seraphine turned her attention back to the farmer, pulled out a brick of Euros from her coat, and threw it at his feet. He didn’t dare pick it up. He was too afraid of her. He knew what she was. And she knew, he knew what she was.

He’d seen the countless girl’s bodies come through like chicken carcasses at a processing plant over the decades. He knew he would die of old age soon, and only hoped God would forgive him for helping a monster.

Seraphine turned around, jumping into the sky, and disappeared. He was trembling and relieved that she was gone. He won’t see her for another full moon. He painfully bent over and picked up the brick of Euros. His hands were shaking.

******

Seraphine got out of the shower and wrapped her hair in a towel. She looked in the mirror and admired herself, the flawless white skin, the blood red lips, the pear shaped figure, but most of all her firm perky *******. She was brushing her teeth, when the doorbell rang. She rinsed out her mouth and wrapped a towel around her, walked to the door and opened it. It was Damien. She mischievously and alluringly smiled. He grinned back, knowing why she’d called. “I was so glad you were still up when I called,” she said poutingly.

She took his hand and led him to her bedroom. It was softly lit, a low yellowish light, not unlike that of a candle’s. The walls were decorated in red damask wallpaper with gold crown, base, and chair moulding. It was very elegant, very French. The bed was a large four posted red ruffled canopy, covered with a red duvet and pillows.

She got to the foot of the bed, turned around, unwrapped herself, sat on the bed, and shuffled herself to the headboard. She looked at him and spread her legs, showing, offering herself to him. Damien took off his clothes and crawled to her, over her, and leaned down to kiss her. She rose up to meet his kiss, wrapping her arm around his neck, then dragging him down in her.

She kissed him hard, ******* his tongue into her mouth, biting his lower lip. She stopped. He looked at her, a questioning look on his face. Then she pushed him down towards her *****. She had a trimmed and sculpted bush, just enough not to hide her full lips.

He started kissing around her bush, her tummy, and inner thighs. He could feel her squirming, as he circled around, edging closer to her *******. He kissed her lips, sliding his tongue up and down, then penetrating her.

She was wet, and tasted fresh, like sweet spring water. How amazing he thought to himself. I’ve never tasted a woman like this before. He went deeper with his tongue, pulling back the lips with his hands. She pushed his head hard into her. He licked her splayed ******, as she moaned in pleasure and approval. He moved his tongue up till he got to her ****, and lightly rubbed it then stopped, kissing her tummy. She relaxed and sighed.

He kissed his way down to her ****, kissing it softly then circling it with his tongue. She arched her back as he vigorously rubbed her **** with the tipe of his tongue. She moaned, then yelled stop, stop, in breathy gasps, then fell back into the pills. She took his head in her hands, and pulled him up to her mouth, and gave him deep, passionate baiser amoureux.

She took his hard **** in her hand and guided him towards her *****. She slid his **** up and down her *****, lubing up the head of the **** with her wetness. Then she let go, and he penetrated her slowly, as she gasped then moaned. He felt her wetness and heat as he slid deeper into her.

He started to pump rhythmically back and forth, slowlying picking up speed, as she moaned and groaned as he bottomed out his **** into her. He was going to *** and started to moan, when she yelled, “choke me, choke me.”

Taken back, he slowed. She looked up at him quizzically. “Choke me,” she said sternly. “You're a big boy. Choke me,” she repeated with a bit of irritation in her voice. He placed his hands around her neck and lightly pressed and started pumping. He got back into the rhythm and was back on track, getting close to *******. “Harder,” she said, “hard like you mean it.” It turned him on, and he clamped down harder as he pumped harder, animalistically.

He knew she was getting close to orgasming as she moaned and writhed under him. “Oui, oui, oui,” she screamed, and in a blink of an eye, she’d flip him on his back. Her hands on his chest, holding him down, as she rode him hard. She screamed, “ah, ah, ah,” then collapsed on his chest. His ****, still hard, inside her. She slowly rolled over, taking him with her, till he was on top, then rocked her hips, wanting him to continue, to finish.

He started to moan. She hooked her wrist around his neck and pulled him to her mouth, kissing him hard and deep as he came. He convulsed collapsing  on top of her. His **** still inside her, as she wrapped her arms around and rocked him back and forth, kissing the top of his head as if comforting a child.

He rolled over, crashing into the bed with exhausting and fatigue. He looked over at her. She was staring up at the ceiling. He saw the reddish purple strangulation marks he’d left on her neck, and slipped into a deep sleep.
LUNA Oct 14
Today I stood under the Eiffel Tower
And then I looked up
Few times in my life where I felt that small
One of them was the day I realized
We would never be together again.
Restu Taurina Sep 30
if you were a city, you’d be like Paris
a beautiful ray of lights,
with its own captivating mind

oh Paris...

you can’t describe Paris
unless you have wandered around the streets
under its rainy night

you can’t describe Paris
until you walked in a sunny park,
felt the gentle touch of the breeze upon your face
while stroking your hair

you can’t describe Paris
if you haven’t felt the atmosphere at Les Quais de Seine,
Friday night after a hard week at work

you can’t even begin to describe Paris
because it should not be described,
it should be felt

just like i can’t begin to describe
how empty my life would be
without you
Anais Vionet Sep 12
The Seine river banks,
with their lack of guardrails, freaked
me out in fourth grade:

"Avez-vous entendu?!!"
My best friend rushed to ask it.
"Did you hear?! (the news)"

A woman drowned!!
She gushed - the horror tale
punch line delivered.

My eyes were wide with
shock and fear - the monster takes
another victim!

The dark Seine river
slithered, like a green snake
- feet from my front door.

There was no railing
- a misstep would drop you some
12 feet, to your cold death.

No parent could save
you - a terrifying thought for
a nine year old girl.

Walking to school, my
brother would sneak up, nudging
me near left-bank death.

I would scream, amid
cat calls and boyish laughter,
despite our au pair.

My best friend, Chloe, shared
my caution, if not my fear,
and loved to tease me.

That rapid river
loomed large in my dreams - as fears
can - for many years.

Last year we were in
Paris and I still couldn't go
near the riverbank  =]
Some childhood fears stay vividly with us.
I have in me a bit of Tuscan sun
The wildness of mistral
The calmness of a Cezanne village
I often walk around the countryside of Pissaro
And see the colors, still abundant, undefeated
I stroll around the lilies and the harbor of France where Manet painted being thrown out of his house, not able to pay the rent
I dance with the beautiful girls in high society Parisian parties of whom from Zola to Maugham spoke about
I learn art in silence, in the bright orange color of the day drawing the French young girl
Whose face is like Madonna
Her innocence, her laughter, her flawless body
Excite me, breaks me, creates me
I walk with clean head and red wine in the streets of Montmartre
Searching the gone and dusted studio of Renoir, Picasso, Monet
I stand exactly there where there is nothing old except the moon
And the Sacre Couer
In the morning I take the first train to Auvers Sur Oise
And walk into the cemetery
Where lie in the gorgeous French sun
Vincent and Theo Van Gogh
I utter to them, "Can dream ever be false?"
It is when I heard the footsteps
I turned
The girl in the yellow dress stands at the gate of the cemetery
Whom I draw every day but never captured her beauty
The French girl
We both stand there as it is
As if 
framed
paused 
Frozen
We, the Impressionists!
Diljeev Jul 20
This once I dreamed about
a rainy day in Paris,
when I saw you out of the blue
nailing the business grey,
I subtly walked across the bridge
hoping to run into you which is
exactly what I did,
sorry for the coffee spill
one can't possibly be allowed to
look that good in business grey.
With all the catching up to do,
towards a café near the tower
we made our way.
Amidst the anecodets
and the laughs,
time passed and the café
now turned into a bar,
not wanting the day to end
deep down I'd slowly pray.
Now it was midnight
silence echoing in the streets
and then came the two,
completely wasted,
wandering around and giggling away,
stopped by a bridge when you asked me
"who knew we'd meet again like this."
I replied "I knew... I knew
all along the way.",
everything that followed after this was
consequential to the beauty in this day,
That's when I woke up,
adding another one to the list of
dreams I hope turn into reality someday.
They say
Paris is the city of love
Apocalypse is the wrath of God
I say play your cards right
And get saved from both.
its time to say goodbye to paris
to the dreams of you/a typewriter/ an early morning cigarette
to you forgetting your coffee until its grown cold
to the muse I used to be with a glass heart and amber dreams
a golden room collects dust and unfulfilled daydreams
I erase our paris from my memory
I can almost recall a time when I didn’t care... there was so much life laid up in store

frivolous days tossed aside:
grisly hangovers of endless nights,

I used to observe the characters of Paris from a window in Chez Camille... sun light flashing through the green of horse chestnut trees lining wide Montmartre streets-

well heeled parents guiding their chattering children past a
staggering drunk, **** marks up his trouser leg, greasy hair clinging to his beard

he’s avoided too by those girls in summer dresses, all legs and laughter and dreams

they are ogled by the old men drinking coffee outside cafes, complaining  about their busy wives...

back in that time when our choices could send us anywhere-
careening into old cinemas watching movies with wide eyes,
building driftwood fires on deserted beaches
or writhing with nameless shapes in little rooms
washed in strawberry *****

back before our choices defined us and hardened into everything we are.

back when right and wrong were only whispering
and the streets of Paris called my name
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