a blue
withered
rose

guarded
by dead
fools

for a ghost
queen

praying
to gods

for one
last
wish

a kiss

just one
last
kiss

before
she
dies

i only need 1 yes
from a 1000 noes

tick
tick
tock
time is almost up
crying is for fools
only gods are spared

defeated
on my knees

what more
do you want of me

my fate
is not my own

why do i keep choosing non productive, destructive relationships, replaying fatal mistakes like a *******. am i drawn to the familiar, the comfort of my original wound. do i want to fix it, re-shape it, or just except and wallow in it.  

i needed to be loved, wanted to be loved, craved to be loved, yet was, abandoned, tossed aside, and rejected, to die alone, in the wilderness, ostracized by my tribe, my primary care giver.

social rejection diminished my worth, destroying my self-esteem, my confidence crushed by a string of failures, i fell into the black hole of suicidal ideation and depression.

i seeked my mother’s acceptance, so i chose you, the cliché, of a man marrying his mother, i recreated all the conditions, insuring the lethality of constant rejection.

i struggled to uncover the source of my neurotic behavior, finally i regained the strength, the confidence to push away the she-devils who were dangerous.

i chose a new path, made different choices, recognized, avoided the irresistible succubus. now i see, endless possibilities, none of which are fated.

it is what you most fear, your reoccurring nightmare, the thing you can not grasp, understand, that shorts your brain, that death is the end, there is no after life, no purpose to your existence, no just god sitting on a throne, dispensing justice, punishing the evil, rewarding the good. reality is too hard and harsh, you pray to god, is it true, you are more my creation than i am yours.

how do you reconcile the fact that you know so deep down inside is true. you lie to yourself, suppress the fear, repress the thoughts, ignore what you see with you own eyes. the fear rises, the anxiety worsens, the insomnia lengthens, you fall prey to cognitive dissonance. to understand is to forgive, the anger, the irrational behavior.

the idea that you are mortal is unbearable, that you will die, your flesh rot, and be forgotten. how any man can make sense of it and live, court, marry, have children, when the world has spun out of control, the three horses are here. the pale horse is coming, it will soon be time to die.

it doesn’t exist
it’s a creation
of a black box
called your mind
absurd insane
pareidolia of the eye
seeing factuals
hoping there is order
terrified of the nothingness
pleading for grace
from a divine

i am tired of fighting, i am too old, i’ve seen too much

i am throwing down my weapon, i surrender, **** me if you must have blood

i don’t care anymore, i don’t remember what i am fighting for, i just want to go home.

put this war behind me, live to love, not to ****, not to die, for what purpose, for what god.

who will commemorate our battles, and those who have died just yesterday

who will remember our names, aspiration, dreams once we are dead

we are disposable, born to ****, then die, who cares, why care, we served your purpose

we are the pawns, expected to die for the greater good that we can not have

look at your lives, was it worth it, how do you honor Them, those who died, so you can live

a writer’s pen
a dancer’s body
scribbling scrawling
undulating gyrating
across floor and paper
danced and imagined
love expressed in words and gestures

i am tired
fed up
stuck in a rut
i want change
something new
novel and exciting

i  want to burn it all down
start fresh
rise from the ashes
like a phoenix

penciling these poems
writing down my fears
is like shouting
my deepest, darkest
best hid secrets

poetry
is the realm
of intellectual
and emotional
aristocracy

forgive me
for my hubris
and folly
if you think this
a fallacy

a dancer’s body
a writer’s pen
undulating gyrating
scribbling scrawling
across floor and paper
choreographing sweating
imagining writing  
touching kissing loving
expressed in her movements and his words

i experienced love
it was painful, pointless, and overrated
yet i need, crave, and wished i had it my life

it’s too late
we’ve passed
the point
of no return

we are witnessing
the beginning
of the end

it’s only
going to get worst
hotter
drier

we are pretending
ignoring
wishing
everything
was ok

we know
it’s going to get bad
starvation
climate migration
some are going to live
many are going to die

i can never return home, a place lost to time, ghosts in dark forest, memories sunk in deep waters, my heart has grown cold, my passion extinguish, my soul cynical from experience.

to continue is a lost cause, well beyond the point of no return, i run to escape, knowing those who stay are forsaken.  

my end is near, but i will die in the place and way of my choosing.

how pure
how white
do i have to be
for you to forgive me

a hot wind blows in the desert for a lost soul
walking under a cold moon
forgotten, forgetting
in relentless waves of shame
sinking higher into a purple sky
clouds as passersby
tears fall into oblivion
when a child smiles

what would you die for
or more
dedicate your life to
money, wife, a child

in searching for purpose
ignoring the evident
that its not outside
but inside

its not about me
but helping others

I am ashamed, it goes deep into my bones, my mind, it permeates all of me, to the bottom of my soul. at night, under the covers, I cry, feeling, I am not good enough, beautiful enough, attractive enough, **** enough, for you or anyone, to love, or at the very least, like. there are too many conditions to unconditional love, and i've tired of trying, thus i am no one’s partner, no one’s lover.

escape
reality
with drugs
and alcohol
unleash
let go
be free
sink deep
into the bliss
see the queen
on the ceiling
with barbiturates
kiss her majesty
don’t be afraid
she's waiting for you

i write
create
elaborate
romantic
love stories

i am a coward
afraid of real girls
live through my words
terrified of being hurt…, again

the slow swirl
of a cloud
in a endless sky
wandering
among the stars
as the moon dims
a dream fades
remembered briefly
at sunrise
i wake up crying
for a life
i've ever lived

when you look down
at the body
of your mother
lying in a coffin
as the lid is closed
lowered in the ground
and covered by dirt
there is nothing else to say
but shed tears
of regret

you will die
be forgotten
only your poems
and writings
maybe remembered

so beautiful
passionate
you cry
not know why
something stirs
resonates
welling up
from your subconscious
seeking connection
any intimacy
physical emotional
so as not to feel
alone
vulnerable
inwardly pleading
rescue me

i write
you edit, suggest
re-writing my poem

i need
a safe space
a sanctuary
to shelter
stay in place
watch the madness
from afar
exploding
outside
my window
retreat
to the bedroom
when life
is cruel

i miss you…so much…, it hurts
i can’t stop thinking about you…,dreaming about you
i need to feel you…, touch you…, smell and taste you
hear your whispers, moans, fears and secrets
feel your sweat and wetness against my skin
say it, i want to hear it, that you love me
and only me

i wrote it
for you

told the truth
i have no more

secrets

listen, and listen well
the secret to fame and fortune
is not who you know
but who knows you

in late september, when summer has past and fall is here, as the sun sets and the sky blues, bitter sweet yearnings stir, as winter comes. the days cool, the nights lengthen, i long to hold you in my arms, smell your scent mixed amongst the fallen leaves, to feel your lips against mine, to taste the candied sweetness of your kisses.

i relish the coming of the cold, nights buried deep in flannel sheets, weighted down by woolen blankets, warm and snug, bodies naked, intertwined, vulnerable, safe in each other’s arms, oblivious to the world and its problems.

Madame LeCarvennec had asked the chauffeur to be at Manoir Tregont Mab by 7 PM, the start of civil twilight during the vernal equinox, which would give them plenty of time to get to Pointe du Raz by nightfall at 8:52 PM.

It would be bitterly cold and windy at Enez Sun, so Gaëlle put on her black Lululemon cold weather leggings, long sleeved top, fleece vest, black hooded Patagonia puff down jacket, and black military style UGG leather boots.

Madame LeCarvennec had her druidess clothes and things taken to the island this morning, so she could travel and fly unencumbered.

Gaëlle walked down the stairs, where Madame LeCarvennec was waiting for her. They kissed twice cheek to check in silence. Then Madame LeCarvennec gave her a quarter baguette, ham, and butter sandwich.

Gaëlle walked out into the drizzling cold and stepped into a black Evoque Range Rover. The chauffeur, a middle aged man, armed and former  1st Marine Infantry Paratrooper, gave her a quick glance in the rear view mirror and started to drive.

They drove  in silence up D783 to Quimper, then D784 east to Pointe du Raz. She looked at the windows at the ghostly landscape, houses passing by in a blur. The seriousness of the situation weighed on her, as she slipped deeper into her thoughts, watching the endless landscape of cornfields.

They pulled into the deserted Pointe du Raz gravel parking lot. The sound of muffled crunching rocks bring her back to the moment. The driver stopped. She got out, and gasped at the cold vicious wind. She closed the door, and the chauffeur drove off. She was alone, in the dark Finistère shoreline.  

She walked down the paved trail towards the Sémaphore de la Pointe du Raz, a modern lighthouse, equipped with the latest in high-tech lighting, electronics, and microwave communication equipment. Then pass the Notre Dame des Naufragés, Our Lady of the Shipwrecked statue, till she got to the edge of the jagged rocks jutting into the Atlantic.

Directly in front of her was La Vieille, a lighthouse built on a rock, to the north Phare de Tévennec, a lighthouse built on a big rock and said to be haunted, and to the northwest, the infamous lighthouse Ar Men, called the hell of hells by keepers.

Lighthouses were classified by keepers into three categories, according to the harsh working conditions: "Hell" for houses at sea, "Purgatory" for island houses,  and "Paradise" for houses on land.

5 miles out, she could barely make out Enez Sun. The island was dark. The residents had left. The island was deserted except for the nine priestesses. Gaelle jumped into the air, placing her hands to her side as she picked up speed and altitude. The wind was blowing hard, forming white caps on the waves below.

She saw the bonfire, outstretched her hands, lowered her legs, and started her descent, landing several meters away from the circle of priestesses. A priestess pointed to a sack with Gaelle’s clothes: a white heavy cotton dress, a thick green woolen cloak, and turnshoe soft leather shoes.    

The priestesses were standing, holding hands, around two standing stones called Les Causeur in a field south of Eglise Saint-Guénolé in the center of town. Gaelle watched as they chanted and swayed rhythmically as a group. She knew from her days as a priestess, she could not be part of the circle, as the individual priestesses gave their power to the circle and leader, the eldest of the priestess, to amplify and see into the future.  

The priestesses swayed, tilting their heads back, chanting, but the eldest, Kermorian, bowed her head, concentrating and focusing her Sight. Images would come into focus, and she could make out their meaning, front the context of the subject or their surroundings. It was up to her to piece together the visions and make sense of what she’d seen.

Kermorian dropped to her knees. Her head bowed low. The circle stilled and quieted. Kermorian spoke, “ I see her. She has returned to Paris. She seeks her mother, to bring her back. She had killed many girls and many more will die to resuscitate the mother. She is manipulating men, and one in particular, to unearth her mother. That is all that I can see this night.”    

Kermorian, fell back on her ***, exhausted from the vision. Her second attending to her. The priestesses broke their circle and gathered around the fire, breaking breads, cakes, and drinking wine.  Kermorian weakly got up and walked to the fire, sat down on a cut tree stump and stared into the bonfire.

Kermorian spoke, and the priestess quieted. “She is back. Our sisters in Čachtice had been watching her. It is clear why she is back. To resurrect her mother, whom the French archeologists from la Musée Carnavalet are excavating her coffin.”

Kermorian waved Gaelle to her. “You are the closest to the archeologist and the mother. He will lead you to the daughter. Only then will we know how to deal with her and how to stop her from resurrecting her mother. The mother is the one who decimated our people. She must not be allowed to return. When the archeologist removes the iron stake through her heart, and the daughter feeds her blood, the mother will resurrect and seek vengeance on our people.”

Gaelle knew of the horrors the vampires had wreaked on her people. The systematic slaughter most of the druids, priestesses, vaters, and bards, killing the leaders, dispersing the followers. She then killed the men, so no fields could be tilled, gamed hunted, or women and children protected. They died by the thousands, the luck ones were taken into slavery by the Romans.  

The Celts abandoned their cities, dispersed, and hid deep into the forest of Europe. Our people hid in forests around Rennes, Broceliande, Quimper, Carnac, and Armorique.  

The Celtic culture was slowly forgotten and replaced by Gallic, then Roman, and finally French.

A small group of priestesses and druids were able to **** and stop most of the vampires. The others fled Europe, going deep into the desolate and savage Ural mountains, where they stayed until now.

The Christians and their new ways dismissed vampires, fairies, and magik even though their Holy books spoke of Lilith and her sisters in the garden of Eden, succubi, and magik.

Gaelle had seen excavation, the coffin, and Gerard. She’d gotten close to him, ****** him, and made sure he'd not forget her.

Animals have an intuition about danger. Men have “gut feelings.”  I should have listened to mine.  The first time I saw her, I knew she was dangerous.  I could feel it, and it excited me.  She was a predator, a tigress, a seductress on the hunt, a wild, untamable savage woman who destroyed men.  She would destroy me.  I saw it in her eyes the first time I saw her.  She was walking by with her girlfriends, laughing and giggling. She looked up, caught my gaze, and my world suddenly froze. A thousand feelings were expressed in the blink of her eyes.  She told me I was prey.  She told me I would die. She smiled, releasing my gaze.  My world rushed back into focus with the abrupt harshness of a slap in the face.  I was sweating. I was afraid. I was excited as I  watched her disappear into the crowd. That was the first time I saw her. How could I forget.

The train slowed as it pulled into la Gare de l’Est, the cars bumping and wheels grinding as it came to a stop. It was late. I’d have to move fast to catch the last metro home. I didn’t have the energy, I was tired, cold and hungry, which made me grumpy.

I slung my satchel around my chest, grabbed my carry-on, and made my way to the exit. As I neared the door, I could feel the cold January air flooding into the car. I tightened my coat around me as I stepped down the stairs onto the quay, carry-on in my right hand.

Looking for the nearest exit, I turned left without looking and ran full on into woman. Our bodies collided, time slowed, as we compressed into each other. Her hair flowed into my face like an ocean wave. I could smell her hair, her scent, her femininity. She squealed in surprised, her voice full of youth and nubility.  

The world rushed back into real time and I saw her. My eyes opened wide in awe and disbelief that a woman could be so beautiful. I remember her eyes, supernaturally blue, sapphire blue, as if they glowed from a power within; her skin, white, milky, alabaster, as if she were a statue come to life; her hair, black, glossy, like the feathers of a witch’s raven.

Our eyes locked. Her angry gaze cut through me. I felt exposed and in danger. I looked down and apologized. “Excusez-moi mademoiselle,” I said, putting my right hand to my heart and bowing slightly as if addressing a queen.

I looked back up. Our eyes meet. She had assessed me in the blink of her eyes. She regained her composure, her body relaxed, she touched my arm, and said, “excusez-moi, I was not looking where I was going,” which I sensed was untrue.

I stepped aside. She passed, turned her head, looked me dead in the eyes, gave me a slight smile, and disappeared into the stream of the exiting crowd.

I was perplexed and confused. I’d never had that sort of exchange with a woman before. I didn’t know what to make of it. Was it good, bad, or somewhere in between?

The crowd had thinned. I started walking toward the metro station, looking for #4 Port d’ Orleans, increasing my pace before I missed the last metro home. I followed the signs, and descended the stairs to the quay. There were a few people and groups, up and down the quay, quietly waiting. I leaned on a large concrete pillar, too tired to pay attention to my surroundings, waiting for the train, smelling the air filled with exhaust from electric motors. I could hear the hum of the approaching train. In an instant it was in front of me, slowing down, coming to a stop, the doors hissing open.

I waited a bit, for the groups to board the train. Tired and on auto-pilot, I leaned down, picked up my carry-on, boarded, and sat down on a folding seat by the door, putting my carry-on between my legs.

The train slowly accelerated, humming, rocking, back and forth melodically. I looked up out of curiosity to see who else was on the last train, and I saw her, sitting on the first bench catty-corner, facing towards me. Surprised and caught off guard, that I would ever see her again, I  immediately looked down, not wanting to be caught staring, looking at her from the corner of my eyes.

I couldn’t get over how beautiful she was. Preternaturally beautiful, as if she wasn’t one of us, somehow not human. She was reading a Kindle, iPods in her ears. Her dress was Parisienne, black on black, the only color, the blue in her eyes, and the blood red of her lips.

She oozed sensuality, sophistication, and confidence. How could that be for a woman so young, a woman in her early 20s?

She read quiescently, only her thumb moving, ever so slightly, as she page forward through her Kindle. Her eyes never looked up, not even to see who new entered the car, when stopped at new stations.

I would look up, occasionally, to glimpse at her. She was fascinating to me, not only because of her beauty, but from her vibe. I couldn’t explain it, couldn’t figure it out. Why was I so drawn to her, like a moth to flame?

The train pulled into to Ile-de-la-Cite, rapidly slowing down, passengers counter balancing so as not to fall over. The doors hissed open. In the corner of my eyes, I saw her stand up and start walking up the aisle towards the doors, towards me. I raised my head slowly, our eyes met, locked, time stopped. She smiled, subtly, but enough for me to see. Her eyes, gentle, tender, inviting. I smiled, a slight smile back, my eyes saying everything she wanted to hear.

She turned and exited the train. I stared at her, my mouth open in amazement. The klaxon sounded, the door started closing. Panic surged up within me, as I feared I would never see her again. I bolted up from my seat, headed towards the door, abandoning all behind me. The doors slammed shut with thud, I pulled down on the handle, they were locked.

The train started to move, I looked at her. She was looking back. Our eyes locked, as the trained sped off into the darkness of the night.

It was starting to snow as I entered Pere Lachaise cemetery. The few that had ventured in, were streaming out, as daylight faded, fast giving way to twilight, on this 1st of February night. I had 30 minutes of daylight left, to take the shots that I’d planned for all year.

I knew where I was going, having visited the cemetery in the summer, to scout locations for this moment. I walked up l’Avenue Principale towards Le Monument aux Morts and took the first right on l’Avenue des Puits. My pace quickened, not wanting to waste a single second, of the dying light.

I crossed path with the the last stragglers, most likely having paid homage to Chopin or Morrison. I was entering the oldest and most forested area of the cemetery. It sent a chill up my spine, not because of the cold February air, but because of the surreality of what was in front of me, a cobble stone path, lined with old trees, surrounded by an ocean of tombs, fading into the white and gray of a snowy afternoon.

I arrived at my location, the tomb of Heloise and Abelard. I set down my tripod and camera bag. I stopped to take it in. It was eerily beautiful, the snow slowly falling, lightly covering the tomb, the flowers, the love letters, laying around the plinth.

I was surprised at the number of single roses and love letters that were strewn in the yard, between the wrought iron fence, and the tomb. Even during the dead of winter, young women pilgrimaged to the tomb, leaving letters and prayers, hoping their love will last forever, in life and in death. Sadness overwhelmed me, as I felt the longing and pain of their and my,  unrequited loves.

I pulled out my camera, turned it on, double checking the battery indicator and exposure. I put the viewfinder to my eye, slowly pressed the shutter till I heard a beep, as the auto focus sharpened the view and my world became crystal clear. I zoomed in and out, composing my shot. I was too close for my lens. I picked up my tripod, turned around, and surveyed my work area.

I moved up the path, three tombs over, next to an old wide trunked chestnut tree, set my tripod and bag down, and recomposed my shot. The snowfall had intensified, to a heavy flurry. The snowflakes were thicker, fluffier, slowly drifting down like dandelion seeds. I was swimming in an ocean of white magical specks. Everything around me was dusted in ******, pure white powder.

I unfolded my tripod, mounted the camera to the head, and verified it was securely attached. I zoomed in and out till I composed my shot, stepping down the aperture and up the speed, till I achieved the dark, moody, feel I wanted. I pressed the shutter and captured the shot.

I was looking through the viewfinder when a woman stepped into my shot. For a split second, I was angry, then confused, then intrigued. I looked up, stepped back from my camera, to see and understand what was unfolding before me.

She was wearing a full-length white Lynx fur coat and cap, black leather gloves and boots. She was stunning, breathtaking. Was I hallucinating? Was she real? She hadn’t seen me, as I was behind her, catty corner, partially hidden by the chestnut tree.


She was holding something. I couldn’t quite see. I looked through the viewfinder, zoomed in on her. She held a single long stemmed blue rose in her left hand.  Instinctively, I pressed the shutter, captured the shot, the photo, the image, of this unworldly scene.

It was late, almost dark. What was she doing here? Was she praying, why, to whom, Heloise, Abelard, or both? She moved up to and placed her right hand on the protective wrought iron fence. I took a shot, then another. Then with her left hand, she gently threw the blue rose, time slowed, I pressed the shutter, never letting go, as the flower arched in the air and landed perfectly, on the plinth, at Heloise's side.

I released the shutter, still looking through the viewfinder. She placed her left hand on the wrought iron fence, bowed her head, just stood there, in the darkness, in the snowfall.

She pulled her right hand away from the wrought iron fence and wiped her eyes. Was she crying?

She slowly turned around. I pressed the shutter, held it down, for a continuous shot. I saw her face, her raven black hair, her incandescent blue eyes. Like a cannonball hitting me in the chest, I realized and recognized who she was. It was her, the woman from the metro.

She looked up, turned her head, and looked directly at me. I zoomed in, framed her face, continuously pressing the shutter. Her face expressionless, her eyes aglow. Had she seen me? I don’t know. She took a step, turned her head, and walked back up the cobble stone path, and faded into the night, into the falling snow.

I turned the corner, entering the Italian sculpture collection at Le Louvre, delighting in the smells and quiet sounds of the museum. I walked slowly down the creaking wood floored corridor, ignoring the Dirce, the Nymph and the Scorpion, till I came to Antonio Canova’s Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss.

I gazed at it lazily, longingly, savoring its sensuality, love, and tenderness. It was beautiful, beyond belief, exquisite. It evoked so many emotions, to the point of being overwhelming. I stared at it, losing myself, in time and reverie, wishing I could love and be loved with such intensity.

“It’s beautiful, “I heard a feminine whisper in my ear. I could feel the warmth of her breath on my neck. “Yes,” I replied, slowly, instinctively, coming out of my trance, and turning towards the voice.

Our eyes met, locked, I couldn’t look away, as if bewitched, her incandescent blue eyes fathomless, tender, worldly, looking, seeing deep into my soul. I could feel her in me, like a new born kitten exploring every nook and cranny. It was slightly unnerving, knowing she could wander, at will, unfettered, and yet calming, even comforting.

As I regained my sense, I recognized her and stared, incredulously, until she said, softly, sweetly, “je m’appelle Seraphine.”  

She moved in a bit closer, cocking her head towards my right ear, and whispered, “It is my favorite, it's so tender and passionate, the way he holds her, kisses her, the way only a god could.” I noted her tone, the way she said it, with such confidence, as if she knew, from experience, what it was like, to be kissed, loved, by a god.  

She gently pulled back a bit, looked me in the eyes, like a child looking at a puppy. She was beautiful, preternaturally beautiful, a paragon, goddess like. I just stared at her in awe.

“I think we’ve seen each other around Paris”, she said softly, smiling, “and may have bumped into each other in the Metro.” “Yes, I think we have,” I replied, as she extended her right hand, as a queen would, to a knight. I didn’t know if I should  kneel and kiss her hand, or shake it. I took her hand in mine, it was soft, warm, moist. I could feel her youth, femininity, life in her hand. I shook it, gently, stopped, slightly released my grip, our hands slid apart, touching, sliding, caressing down our fingers, stopping ever so slightly at the tips, before releasing. The ecstasy of her touch. I longed for more. I heard her sigh, my eyes moved from her hand, to her lips, finally to her eyes. I smiled and said, almost in a whisper, “Je m’appelle Damien.”

It was getting dark when I exited the Port d’Orleans metro station. The cold air hit me instantaneously, seeping in between my clothes and skin. I tighten my long coat around me, readjusted my back pack, and pulled out my phone to confirm the address of Tango à Paris. It was only two blocks north of where I was standing.  

It was my first date with Séraphine. I had suggested dinner. She suggested something less formal, a bit more active, how about tango, explaining her studio gave a hour long introduction before the milonga. I agreed, as I had taken a year of tango, and felt confident I could keep up, maybe even impress her.

I’d wondered how she kept her 5 foot 8, 130 pound-ish physique, swimmer lean, and now I knew, she was a dancer.

I liked this part of Paris, the 14th arrondissement, L’Observatoire, clean, tidy, having the look and feel of a Nordic city like Olso or Stockholm. The sidewalks were full of interweaving professionals, eager to get out of the cold, the drizzle, and home to their loved ones.  

I walked up L’Avenue du Général Leclerc till I got to No 119. I pressed the buzzer and heard back, “oui.” “I am here for the milonga,” I said. The door buzzed, I pushed it open, entering a small foyer with sign pointing up a staircase to the first floor. I could hear the muffed sound of music and feel the movement of bodies dancing upstairs.

I climbed the curved wrought iron staircase, the old wooden stairs creaking softly with every step. I saw the studio immediately: two traditional French doors swung open, exposing a gymnasium like dance studio, with clean, golden yellow oak hardwood floor. Men and woman dancing, swinging and spinning about.

I entered the studio, paused, and looked around. At the far of the room was the DJ, sitting at table, with two loud speakers on stands pumping out music at just the right volume: loud enough to feel the music, low enough to talk your partner without having to scream in her ear.  

To my left, people gathered around a table. I walked over, they were writing their names with a felt tip pens on self adhesive name tags and placing it on their chest. A woman turned around and smiled at me. “Bienvenue,” she said, “I’m Jolene.” and extended her hand. “I am Damien”, I replied, shaking her hand politely. “Is this your first time here,” she asked. “Yes,” I replied, “I am waiting on a friend, Seraphine.”

“Mais oui,” she replied with a smile, “she is one of our best dancers, talented, if not gifted.” Her head turned slowly towards the doors, my eyes following.

In the door stood Seraphine, wearing a spaghetti strap, damask black on maroon tango midi dress, slit high up her right tigh. Her shoes, opened toe, black thin strap heels, showing off her matching blood red toe and finger nail polish and lipstick. Her eyelashes thick, black, eyelids smoked dark, giving her the stereotypical look of a femme fatale tango dancer.  She was gorgeous, seductive, awe inspiring, like Bouguereau's The Birth of Venus. How could a man resist such a siren. She was goddess among women.

She walked over to us, said, “Bonsoir Madame,” and kissed Jolene
twice on the cheeks (faire la bise) as is customary among Parisian friends, then  turned to me, touched her cheek to mine, making the mwah, kissing sound.

I was intrigued. The kiss implied no longer an acquaintance, but in her inner circle of intimacy. It had subtle implications that set my mind racing about the meaning; it was also maddening, like trying to see a completed jigsaw puzzle while only holding one of a thousand pieces.

“Ca va,” she asked, bypassing the formal “comment vas-tu” greeting. “Ca va bien,” I replied. “Your dress is stunning,” I said. “Thank you,” she replied, with confidence.

She sat down, ruffled through her bag, and pulled out ecru opened toe tango shoes. I couldn’t help notice her feet, delicate, feminine, absolutely exquisite. I also couldn’t help noticing her tigh, exposed through the slit of her dress.

Before she could get up from the chair, an older man approached, extended his hand, which she accepted. She stood up, looked me in the eyes, and said, “it is rude to refused a dance when asked.” They walked to middle of the floor and started to dance to a slow, sultry, Spanish guitar piece. I sat down and watched. She didn’t just dance, she pranced, shook, and swayed her hips as only an accomplished Latin dancer could. It was amazing to watch.

The music repeated, slowed, and concluded. They walked off the dance floor, to the beverage table, topped with a variety of multicolored bottles of wine. He poured two glasses, offered her one, as they talked, she smiled and occasionally laughed. He bowed his head slightly, touched her upper arm, and walked away, as a cortina started.

Seraphine poured more wine in her glass and poured another glass, walked to me, and offered it. I took it, deliberately touching her hand as I did. She sat down, crossed her legs, the dress sliding aside, exposing her tigh, and asked me, “do you dance monsieur.” “Yes, mademoiselle,” I replied, as a new tanda of spanish guitar played. She stood up, extended her hand. I took it, stood up, and lead her to the middle of the floor, dodging couples along the way.

“Tango”, I asked. “Yes,” she replied. I move in close, wrapped my right arm across her back, pressing her body tight against mine, extending my left arm out in position, palm open. She carefully placed her hand in mine, her forefinger on my thumb, her thumb on the radial artery on wrist, as if feeling my pulse. It struck me as odd and was curious as to why.  She’d done it in a such a methodical way.

Her hands were warm, soft, supple, dewy. She closed her grip and waited for me. I swayed gently to the beat of Tango D’Amor by Bellma Cesepedes, as she rhythmically matched my body. I stepped back on my right foot, holding her tight, bringing her with me, then left,  then forward. My chest pressing into hers. My leg brushed against her tigh as I moved, slow, slow, quick, quick, slow of the basic 8 count. I paused for a second, for her to cross then pushed forward, slowly turning to avoid couples.

I sensed her body heat, felt the wetness of perspiration on her back, smelled the earthiness of her scent. She radiated animal magnetism. I couldn’t, nor wanted to resist her. I knew I was a moth, she the flame.

New music started to play, Fuego Tango by Athos Bassissi, a traditional fast staccato accordion piece with a distinct beat for walking, turning, and swaying. I placed my my hand between her shoulders. I couldn’t feel a strap. She wasn’t wearing bra. It felt intimate, seductive, only a thin layer of cloth between us.

She pulled her head back, looked at me in the eyes, and said, “Tighter, I need to feel you, your body, your moves, so I can respond to your body.” I wrapped by arm completely around her, pulling her tight against my me. My primal urges welled up. I wanted her, to kiss her, to protect her,  to provide for her, have and raise kids with her. I felt stronger, more powerful, like a man. I wanted her in my life before she disappeared forever.

She placed her forehead on my temple. I rocked back and forth catching the beat, stepping backwards with my right, and we started to dance, slow, slow, quick, quick, slow, in a vertical expression of horizon desire.

Bending my knee, sliding forward, my chest pressing against hers, pushing, stopping, shifting, subtly twisting, I signaled a backward ocho. I waited for her, than slide to the left bring her with me, waited for her to pivot then slid right, bringing her with me, then waited for her to center. I walked forward, stopped, signalling for her to cross. I waited for the beat then finished my eight step basic.

I could feel her breath on my cheek, fast, hot; felt her breathing, her chest rising, falling sensuously. She felt good in my arms, as right as rain. I liked holding her, feeling her so close to me.

I started an eight step, stopping at the cross, signaling her to move right in preparation for a scada. As she moved, I stepped between her legs, pivoting her and me 180 degrees, repeating the step 3 times, bringing her back to cross, and finishing the step.

I heard her audibly exhale, relaxing in my arms. She was giving up control, learning to trust, surrendering to me. And I, was one with her, nothing else mattered, all else had disappeared. I was in a state of deep mediation. She was the now and forever.

The music stopped, I looked at her, noticed the glow in her cheeks, felt the warm moistness on her back. But most of all, I noticed her dilated pupils. The glowing sapphire blue of her eyes, replaced by a fathomless blackness, which I fell into.

She looked into my eyes with a gentleness, a knowing, and smiled. A new piece started, Rain, by Kantango, clean, crisp, staccato. I moved, walked, slid, in step with the beat, losing myself in the sensuality of the music and the movement of the dance.  I pressed her tight against my chest, sliding forward, rock stepping backward, holding her tighter as I did a single axis spin. I heard her sigh in my ear and felt her body relax. I slid forward to the staccato rhythm, dramatic, forceful, almost charging.

I stopped and lean to my left. She extended her right leg back, and planeo-ed as I walked her in a circle, side-by-side rock, then to neutral. She tighten her hold, pressing me into her chest, her touch telling me so much, screaming her arousal.

I slid forward, to the side, staring an 8 count to the cross, going into a backward ocho, I shifted my weight, taking her into a moulinette, twisting to the right then to the left, as she elegantly danced around me, back to 5 to complete our 8 count.

I was no longer thinking, just feeling, one with the music, lost in the sensuality, in a type of bliss. I walked forward then back, turning her to the right. To my surprise, she extended her left leg, whipping it across the floor, then back, wrapping it around my leg, slowly sliding her calf up my leg, then unwinding to neutral. I walked forward, she spun around, and slowed her walk. My body colliding, pressing into her’s as we slowly stopped. She turned her face towards mine, raising her hand, touching my face, my cheek, gently turning, bringing it towards her’s, towards her lips. Just as we were going to kiss, she turned her face, my face plunged into her hair, the back of her neck. I could smell, Poison by Dior. I kissed the back of her neck, squeezing her slightly, as she moaned ever so slightly.

It was cold, windless as we walked along the Seine towards Ile-de-la-Cite. The city had wound down, as people settled in for the weekend. The sky losing its light, turning navy, almost black, l’heure bleue, what the French called twilight, when one sneaks away to meet their lover.

The snow fell, slow, light, a delicate flurry, as the street lights flickered on, their orange yellow glow barely illuminating the ground below. We walked arm in arm, as she readjusted and tighten her hold so as not to slip. She felt good on my arm, in my arms, right as rain, as if made for each other, like interlocking jigsaw puzzles.

We walked in silence, our looks and smiles saying more than words. She radiated a beauty, a nubility like no other, match only by that of Aphrodites.    

The flurry thicken, as we cross le Petite Pont to Ile-de-la-Cite. I sensed a reluctance and heaviness in Seraphine’s step as we crossed over the slowly flowing waters of the Seine. It was late. She was tired, I assumed, from all the evening’s dancing, and now the walking to her flat at Place Dauphine.  

We walked past the square in front of Notre Dame. It was empty, and covered with a velvet blanket of white snow. It was surreal, the emptiness of the square, the majestic towers of the belfry contrasting against a gray white sky, the falling snow, the yellow of the sodium lights, softly illuminating the scene.

I walked us to the entrance of the square, and sat us down on a bench at the entrance of La Crypte Archéologique. We chatted about the dance, the evening, and how fun it had been. I told her I occasionally worked in the Crypte overseeing and helping the excavation the Lutèce layer, but spent most of my time at Musée Carnavalet doing administrative work or Bibliothèque Sainte-Geneviève doing historical research.

In silence, we looked in wonder and awe at Notre Dame. Seraphine snuggled tighter against me. I wrapped my arm around her, looking into he eyes. She was preternaturally beautiful, bewitching and lethally seductive. I felt as if I had no power to resist her, like a moth to a flame. I placed my hand on her cheek, and drew her in, kissing her, light and gentle as an 8 pm church bell rang in the distance. We kissed more intensely. Her breath getting harder and heavier. She put her hand behind my neck, pressing me into her, as she ****** my tongue into her mouth, harder and harder, till it hurt. Surprised by her lust, I pulled back, when I heard the 9 pm bell, the last of the evening, ringing.

I was confused, disoriented, as if I’d just woken up. I just heard the 8 pm bell as we started to kiss. Now it was 9. And my tongue, it was sore; my mouth had the metallic taste of blood. She’d gotten carried away and ****** hard, drawing blood. But I felt oddly calm. She said it was late and should get home. I stood up, took her hand and walked towards her flat. Her parent must be rich or noble, as Ile-de-la-Cite is too expensive for the masses.

At the door of the courtyard of Place Dauphine, she told me she had fun, looked deep into my eyes, gave me a light kiss on the lips, entered the code on the number pad, and disappeared into the darkness of the courtyard garden.

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.

Brighid walked off the escalator at La Gare Montparnasse and headed straight to a ticket vending machine, entered her destination, Quimper, inserted her EMV chip and pin debit card, and took the dispensed ticket.

She walked into la grande salle, her roll-on in tow, as she passed a group of African teenage males. One stepped out of the group, walking up to her with a grin, and asked, “hey chérie, quel est ton six.” She smiled, having played the game before, flipped her hair, walked away, and said, “dans tes rêves petit.” The boys laughed, mocking their friend’s in vain attempt.

She walked to quay 5, found the blue and gray TGV Alantique, and boarded coach number 3. She wanted to be left alone, so found and sat down in a no-table solo chair.

Tomorrow was a full moon, and Brighid and her sisters were to meet as they did every equinox eve.

The train slowly and smoothly pulled out of the station. Brighid was always amazed at how smooth the ride was, remembering a TF1 documentary that the TGVs used Jacob’s bogies to achieve that smooth ride.

Once outside Paris the train hit its maximum speed of 250 km/h (155 mph), briefly stopping at Rennes, Vannes, and Lorient before arriving at the Gare Quimper terminus.

Brighid waited till the coach emptied of the few passengers traveling to Quimper this time of year, pulling out her phone, opened up the Uber app, and typed in “72 Chemin de Tregont Mab, 29000 Quimper, France.” A driver responded, already waiting at the passenger pickup at the front of the gare.

She got her roll-on, walked off the coach, and out the gare. It was typical Quimper weather she thought to herself: dark, wet, and cold. She saw her ride, a blue Renault Kangoo minivan. An Algerian driver got out, opened the door, taking her roll-on as she got in, and closed the door.  

“Manoir Tregont Mab Madame,” the driver said in a thick Marseille accent. “Yes,” she replied relieved to be home. She leaned back in the seat, closing her eyes, not wanting to chit chat with the driver. She could feel her body relaxing, her pulse slowing, her anxiety ebbing.

The Tregont Mab, built after the French Revolution, was 6 km southeast of Quimper, in a secluded forested area, and was owned by Madame Gwen LeCarvennec, a member of her tribe sworn to serve the Druidesses of Enez Sun.

Madame LeCarvennec was 12 when started working at Tregont Mab, and had become chatelaine in her 50s. The house mother, responsible for the care and protection of young druidesses as they came and went from Quimper.

The car turned off the paved road and onto the long winding dirt road to the manor, finally reaching the crushed rock courtyard and stopping. The driver rushed to open Brighid’s door. A young apprentice girl greeted her, instructing the driver to where to carry and drop off the roll-on.

Brighid walked into the house, relishing the smell of baking bread, stewing chicken, and the slight pleasant musky smell of an old French house. She loved this house and the many memories inside. It stirred deep emotions within her, remembering vividly her coming of age and deep and lasting bonds built with the druidesses. She laid her coat on the foyer chair and walked down the beautiful intricate blue and beige ceramic tile to the kitchen.

Madame LeCarvennec was in the process of taking groceries out of a wicker basket when Brighid walked into the kitchen. Madame LeCarvennec looked up and her face lit up, smiling. “Ah me petite biche,” she said, putting down the groceries, and kissing Brighid on the cheek two times.

“Come, sit, tell me what has been happening with you since the last time I saw you, cherie,” she said. Brighid sat down at the table and Madame turned to the cupboard and pulled out some peanuts, chips, and Pernod, then to the frig for a pitcher of cold water and freezer for ice cubes, setting everything on the table. She put the peanuts, chips, and ice in separate bowls. She poured the Pernod in two glasses and gave ice thongs for Brighid to serve herself the ice and pour the desired amount of water to dilute the Pernod to her taste.

Brighid had never stopped being awed at the Ouzo Effect, Pernod turning milky white when diluted with water. She savored the anise smell, picked up the glass, and sipped.

Madame sat down next to her and placed a hand on hers. “How are you doing,” she asked with a frowned expression. “I am tired,” replied Brighid, putting the glass down on the table, “and afraid of what is about to come.”

“Have the others arrived,” Brighid asked. “They have and are all on the island preparing for tomorrow’s equinox,” replied Madame getting up, opening the refrigerator, pulling out eggs, butter, and ahead of Bibb salad. Brighid watched her in silence prepare an omelet and salad for dinner. She took another sip of Pernod sliding deeper into her thoughts.

Madame placed a plate of omelet, salad, and a big piece of fresh bread in front of her. She thanked Madame and ate slowly, thinking through what had and might happen.

When she’d finished. Madame called the girl to take her up to her room. She followed the girl up the winding green-carpeted staircase to the master bedroom. The girl turned on the main light, turned down the sheets, threw open the floor to ceiling drapes, revealing two all-glass french doors, then turned around, turned off the main light, and closed the door quietly behind her, leaving Brighid in the dark.

The bright silvery light of the waning gibbous moon lit up the room. Brighid opened the doors, cool cold air flooded into the room, as she took off her clothes, rings, earrings, and bracelets , placing them on the chair by the window, leaving only her torc on her body.

She knelt on a sheepskin rug. Next to her was a tray with a carafe of wine, a chalice, a bee’s wax candle in a holder, matches, an athame, a scrying mirror, and a bowl of salt.

She carefully took the items and placed them between the sheepskin rug and the open doors. She took a handful of salt from the bowl and from the center of the sheepskin poured a circle around her. She picked up the athame in her left hand, pointed it down at the circle of salt, slowly turning left, and softly whispered,  

“Earth, Air, Water, and Wind, blessed be Awen, you who are of me and around me, guide me through the night, show me light in the darkness, so mote it be.”

When she had closed the protective circle, she sat naked on a sheepskin rug facing the outstretched forest below. All was quiet, tranquil ‘cept for the occasional eerie, forlorn hooting of a strix owl.

Brighid placed the scrying mirror in her lap, lit the candle, and drank the wine. Slowly she began taking deep belly breaths, breathing through the nose, exhaling through the mouth, releasing the stress in her body, and calming her mind.

She softly began chanting A-I-O, A-I-O, A-I-O, allowing her consciousness to shift and receive the flowing spirit of Awen, the wisdom of the trees, and the life force of Mother Nature.

She was no longer a Gallizenae, a ****** priestess of Enez Sun, but her power of sight had not totally faded. She still could see, albeit hazily, into the near distant future.  She knew the older she got, the more it would fade, and eventually, she’d lose her ability. Her Second Sight

The ****** priestesses were chosen because of their gift of Second Sight. As a priestess aged out, the remaining eight, would look and find girls coming of age who had Sight. Former priestesses from the mainland would fly to her, test her, and if she passed bring her to Tregont Mab for training. Of the handful, only one would be chosen.

A girl’s Second Sight started at menarche, which was starting earlier in modern girls, which made training harder as the girls didn’t have the emotional or intellectual maturity to understand what was happening to their bodies or the responsibilities of being a priestess.

The girls were taught the history, language, and customs of their people and given a new Celtic name. Then they would be taught the ways of the Druidesses, incantations, flight, command of the sea and weather, shapeshift into whatever animal, heal the sickest, and foretell the future. But most of all, they were taught devotion to the pilgrims seeking out their counsel.

When the Honored One was chosen, she’d fly to Enez Sun, and in a ceremony, a brass torc was permanently wrought around her neck, never to be removed, as a symbol of holiness, a protector of her people, a Gallizenae of Enez Sun.

As one of the nine Gallizenaes, and a Sacred ******, she could not be touched by man, and no men were allowed on the island of Enez Sun.

A Gallizenae loses her Sight at 25, the same time the human brain stops synaptic pruning and reaches full maturity. During a ceremony, she retires, flies to the mainland, where she is bathed, washed, and scented with oils. She is led to the center of a circle of her people, laid naked on a bed of flowers and herbs, and given a young ****** man to have sacred *** with. A druidess at their feet and a druid at their head, the young man’s throat is slit during *******, allowing the blood to spurt and spill on her, giving her his vitality. The druidess spreads the blood all over her body and hair, painting her in red from head to toe.

A feast is held, and the body of the young man is burnt in a wicker man, releasing his spirit to Awen as naked women danced ecstatically around the fire.

Brighid vividly remembers looking into the eyes of the young man when he ******* and his throat slit. It was that of ******* ecstasy then horror, as he realized he was dying. It had turned her on, feeling his **** spasming as he came, the sound of the knife slicing flesh, his last breath hissing from his cut throat, his body deflating, and his **** going limp inside her.

She remembered being painted in blood, the frenzied dancing, and going into a trance around the burning wicker man, then nothing else, except waking up the next day, no longer a ******, a priestess, a Gallizenae, and sobbing all day.    

She was still a druidess, and her new responsibility was to protect the nine Gallizenaes and her people. She would be sent out to live in French society, and listen for and report back any threats.

Brighid continued chanting, slowly going to a trance, and looking into the low yellow glowing candlelit scrying mirror. “Mother, maiden, crone,” she repeated, while never blinking or breaking eye contact with her reflected image.

A blackness slowly flooded her visual periphery, till all she could see were her eyes staring back and her. She stilled her mind, taking slow deep breaths. The eyes in the mirror morphed from her brown doe eyes to seductive sapphire blue cat eyes. The face slowly came to light and focus. A woman with shiny raven black hair, alabaster white skin, full lips, and stunning long-lashed sapphire blue cat eyes.

Brighid stared, enthralled by her beauty, her face forever burnt in her mind. She didn’t know who she was, but she knew she was dangerous.

tears yet to dry
for a dream
that has died
laying at your feet
shards and pieces

cherished kisses
slowly fading
your heart
growing cold
brown brittle
fragile
as an autumn leave

walking among the living
searching for the dead
living with a ghost
demons screaming
in your head

lay down
rest forever
in peace
my love

we were full
of big plans
high hopes
but we were too young
and dumb
to know
how hard
it was going to be
we shattered
when confronted
with the reality

say my name
say it again
louder
you know who i am
you like it
it turns you on
when you play
pretend
to be a little girl
pulled down *******
spanked behind
when its stings
you feel the welts
rising on your skins
the lack of control
submission
being told
your sighs and wetness
tell me so

I don’t want to think
about the future
fear and anxiety

I don’t want to feel
the grief
ruminate
and sink deeper
in the abyss

you are a siren enchanting mesmerizing
beckoning calling daring me to approach
when you sing no man can resist
like a fool i jumped from the of my ship
swam an ocean of lustful emotions
reached the beach beheld your presences
approached kissed your lips
knowing on a whim death was certain

newly bloomed, fully flowering, a woman on the cusp
you were so young, it was so wrong, we went too far
mutual attraction, subtle seduction, looking deep into each other’s eyes
wanton smiles, coy glances, stolen touches, on each other’s arms
who seduced whom, whose fault was it, I burned for you
i couldn’t help it, i was mesmerized
by the whispers of your crystalline blue eyes
claim me, take me, hold me in your arms and kiss me
your pouty lips, blood red, glistening, deliciously wet
i was a fool, i knew the dangers, but i surrendered
i lost my senses, to youth so intoxicating, a femininity so alluring
i was drawn to the flame, like a moth, on a cold, dark night
or was i captured, like a butterfly, in the spider’s intricately woven web
free will, or skillfully manipulated, how could i resist, a siren’s call

is it spring
or summer
remember our first
kiss
you were 14
your eyes singed

drinking beer
sitting on my chevy
dreaming big
small town kids
both virgins
exploring
each other
making out

do you
you ever think
of me?