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.

Inspiration from making amazing quotations
The nation's defending its life with its shields
But the swords are all rusted the kingdom's been busted
and the ******* are bathing in gold that they steal

While the people are lying their babies are crying
their rhythm is dying 'cause heartbeats are gone
But they carry it trying to stop themselves crying
as they can't do nothing but watch on and on

As the bankers get richer the poor men get poorer
the ones in the middle are learning to steal
Where before they just borrowed now they got new sorrow
but still they don't  know that they ain't down at heel

They think they are poor so they vote in the richest
just hoping the ******* will keep them in funds
While the genuine destitute lie in the street
and the taxes are funding those *****' cummerbunds

There's a baby who's crying not just 'cause she's some brat
who ain't got no ice cream she's dying of cold
Yes it happens in streets prob'ly near where you live
it isn't just something in stories of old

There are people out there in the gorbals and barrios
the projects the banlieues the hoods and the schemes
Where their lives are the ghetto there is no way out
but to hope or to rap or to wing on a dream

They ask why you ain't reading you try but it's killing you
trying to provide for a family of two
When your mother's alone lying slumped on the sofa
and work w-w-working is all you can do

When the **** do you think I'm supposed to be doing
this **** that you say I cannot live without?
If you listened to lyrics from songs you disparage
you might start to feel an iota of doubt

They're intelligent, eloquent, more so than you
with your old boy school accent and ballot box blue
Can you rap, can you rhyme, can you keep it in time
can you tell of the **** that your family's been through?

No you sit in your office and scoff at the people
who spend their whole lives in a world that is real
They don't give a **** if you judge them or not
but they just want to shout at you
FEEL, ******, FEEL

Mais gloire aux cathédrales !
Pleines d'ombre et de feux, de silence et de râles,
Avec leur forêt d'énormes piliers
Et leur peuple de saints, moines et chevaliers,
Ce sont des cités au-dessus des villes,
Que gardent seulement les sons irréguliers
De l'aumône, au fond des sébiles,
Sous leurs porches hospitaliers.
Humblement agenouillées
Comme leurs sœurs des champs dans les herbes mouillées,
Sous le clocher d'ardoise ou le dôme d'étain,
Où les angélus clairs tintent dans le matin,
Les églises et les chapelles
Des couvents,
Tout au **** vers elles,
Mêlent un rire allègre au rire amer des vents,
En joyeuses vassales ;
Mais elles, dans les cieux traversés des vautours,
Comme au cœur d'une ruche, aux cages de leurs tours,
C'est un bourdonnement de guêpes colossales.
Voyez dans le nuage blanc
Qui traverse là-haut des solitudes bleues,
Par-dessus les balcons d'où l'on voit les banlieues,
Voyez monter la flèche au coq étincelant,
Qui, toute frémissante et toujours plus fluette,
Défiant parfois les regards trop lents,
Va droit au ciel se perdre, ainsi que l'alouette.
Ceux-là qui dressèrent la tour
Avec ses quatre rangs d'ouïes
Qui versent la rumeur des cloches éblouies,
Ceux qui firent la porte avec les saints autour,
Ceux qui bâtirent la muraille,
Ceux qui surent ployer les bras des arcs-boutants,
Dont la solidité se raille
Des gifles de l'éclair et des griffes du temps ;
Tous ceux dont les doigts ciselèrent
Les grands portails du temple, et ceux qui révélèrent
Les traits mystérieux du Christ et des Élus,
Que le siècle va voir et qu'il ne comprend plus ;
Ceux qui semèrent de fleurs vives
Le vitrail tout en flamme au cadre des ogives
Ces royaux ouvriers et ces divins sculpteurs
Qui suspendaient au ciel l'abside solennelle,
Dont les ciseaux pieux criaient dans les hauteurs,
N'ont point gravé leur nom sur la pierre éternelle ;
Vous les avez couverts, poudre des parchemins !
Vous seules les savez, vierges aux longues mains !
Vous, dont les Jésus rient dans leurs barcelonnettes,
Artistes d'autrefois, où vous reposez-vous ?
Sous quelle tombe où l'on prie à genoux ?
Et vous, mains qui tendiez les nerfs des colonnettes,
Et vous, doigts qui semiez
De saintes le portail où nichent les ramiers,
Et qui, dans les rayons dont le soleil l'arrose,
Chaque jour encor faites s'éveiller
La rosace, immortelle rose
Que nul vent ne vient effeuiller !
Ô cathédrales d'or, demeures des miracles
Et des soleils de gloire échevelés autour
Des tabernacles
De l'amour !
Vous qui retentissez toujours de ses oracles,
Vaisseaux délicieux qui voguez vers le jour !
Vous qui sacrez les rois, grandes et nobles dames,
Qui réchauffez les cœurs et recueillez les âmes
Sous votre vêtement fait en forme de croix !
Vous qui voyez, ô souveraines,
La ville à vos genoux courber ses toits !
Vous dont les cloches sont, fières de leurs marraines,
Comme un bijou sonore à l'oreille des reines !
Vous dont les beaux pieds sont de marbre pur !
Vous dont les voiles
Sont d'azur !
Vous dont la couronne est d'étoiles !
Sous vos habits de fête ou vos robes de deuil,
Vous êtes belles sans orgueil !
Vous montez sans orgueil vos marches en spirales
Qui conduisent au bord du ciel,
Ô magnifiques cathédrales,
Chaumières de Jésus, Bethléem éternel !
Si longues, qu'un brouillard léger toujours les voile ;
Si douces, que la lampe y ressemble à l'étoile,
Les nefs aux silences amis,
Dans l'air sombre des soirs, dans les bancs endormis,
Comptent les longs soupirs dont tremble un écho chaste
Et voient les larmes d'or où l'âme se répand,
Sous l'œil d'un Christ qui semble, en son calvaire vaste,
Un grand oiseau blessé dont l'aile lasse pend.
Ah ! bienheureux le cœur qui, dans les sanctuaires,
Près des cierges fleuris qu'allument les prières,
Souvent, dans l'encens bleu, vers le Seigneur monta,
Et qui, dans les parfums mystiques, écouta
Ce que disent les croix, les clous et les suaires,
Et ce que dit la paix du confessionnal,
Oreille de l'amour que l'homme connaît mal !...
Avec sa grille étroite et son ombre sévère,
Ô sages, qui parliez autour du Parthénon,
Le confessionnal, c'est la maison de verre
À qui Socrate rêve et qui manque à Zénon !
Grandes ombres du Styx, me répondrez-vous: non ?...
Ce que disent les cathédrales,
Soit qu'un baptême y jase au bord des eaux lustrales,
Soit qu'au peuple, autour d'un cercueil,
Un orgue aux ondes sépulcrales
Y verse un vin funèbre et l'ivresse du deuil,
Soit que la foule autour des tables
S'y presse aux repas délectables,
Soit qu'un prêtre vêtu de blanc
Y rayonne au fond de sa chaise,
Soit que la chaire y tonne ou soit qu'elle se taise,
Heureux le cœur qui l'écoute en tremblant !
Heureux celui qui vous écoute,
Vagues frémissements des ailes sous la voûte !
Comme une clé qui luit dans un trousseau vermeil
Quand un rayon plus rouge aux doigts d'or du soleil
A clos la porte obscure au seuil de chaque église,
Quand le vitrail palpite au vol de l'heure grise,
Quand le parvis plein d'ombre éteint toutes ses voix,
Ô cathédrales, je vous vois
Semblables au navire émergeant de l'eau brune,
Et vos clochetons fins sont des mâts sous la lune ;
D'invisibles ris sont largués,
Une vigie est sur la hune,
Car immobiles, vous voguez,
Car c'est en vous que je vois l'arche
Qui, sur l'ordre de Dieu, vers Dieu s'est mise en marche ;
La race de Noé gronde encore dans vos flancs ;
Vous êtes le vaisseau des immortels élans,
Et vous bravez tous les désastres.
Car le maître est Celui qui gouverne les astres,
Le pilote, Celui qui marche sur les eaux...
Laissez, autour de vous, pousser aux noirs oiseaux
Leur croassement de sinistre augure ;
Allez, vous êtes la figure
Vivante de l'humanité ;
Et la voile du Christ à l'immense envergure
Mène au port de l'éternité.

do not look at me
listen to me once and for all

by these forgotten suburbs of the world
in the long run, the substance becomes empty shape
with no one noticing
the mirrors reflect images different from reality
but nobody realizes anymore or pretends not to see

and I sit here dressed in flames wet with fears
that I cannot tell....

but will you listen to me once
and for all?
..................
non guardarmi
ascoltami una volta per tutte

presso queste dimenticate periferie del mondo
alla lunga, la sostanza diventa una vuota forma
senza che nessuno se ne accorga
gli specchi riflettono immagini diverse dalla realtà
ma nessuno si rende conto o fa finta di non vedere

e io mi siedo qui vestita con fiamme bagnate di paura
che non so dire ....

ma tu mi ascolterai
una volta
e per tutte?
...............
y por todas

no me mires
escúchame de una vez
y por todas

en estos suburbios olvidados del mundo
a la larga, la sustancia se convierte en  vacía forma
sin que nadie se dé cuenta
los espejos reflejan imágenes diferentes de la realidad
pero nadie lo nota
  o pretende no ver

y yo me siento aquí vestida en llamas empapadas de miedo
que no sé decir ...

pero tu me escucharas
de una vez
y por todas?

...................................    ..........
et pour toutes

ne me regarde pas
écoute-moi une fois et pour toutes

par ces banlieues oubliées du monde
à long terme, la substance devient
  forme vide
sans que personne ne s'en aperçoive
les miroirs reflètent des images différentes de la réalité
mais personne ne remarque
ou fait semblant de ne pas voir

et je suis assis ici habillé en flammes mouillé de peurs
que je ne sais pas dire ....

mais tu m'écouteras une fois
et pour toutes?

a song never sung
a symphony never played
a lesson never learned
a language never spoken
a Sun that never warmed my face,
I miss,
yet I know
I was born times again in forgotten suburbs of the world
I still cherish caresses and cuddles of that miracle fo mine
secret sounds good heat
hope for a new day
of silence and happiness
come what may
....................................
una canzone mai cantata
una sinfonia mai suonata
  una lezione mai imparata
una lingua mai parlata
  un Sole che non mi ha mai riscaldato il viso
  mi mancano
  eppure lo so
  che sono nato molte volte nelle periferie dimenticate del mondo
conservo ancora le carezze e la tenerezza di quel miracolo
  il segreto suono, il caldo buono
speranza di un giorno nuovo
di silenzio e felicità
e così sia
..........
una canción nunca cantada
una sinfonía nunca tocada
  una lección nunca aprendida
un idioma nunca hablado
  un Sol que nunca me calentó la cara
  yo extraño
  pero sé
  que nací muchas veces en los suburbios olvidados del mundo
todavía guardo las caricias y la ternura de ese milagro
  el sonido secreto, el cálido bien
esperanza de un nuevo día
de silencio y felicidad
y que así sea
............
une chanson jamais chantée
une symphonie jamais jouée
  une leçon jamais apprise
une langue jamais parlée
  un Soleil qui n'a jamais réchauffé mon visage
  ils me manquent
  pourtant je sais
  que je suis né plusieurs fois dans les banlieues oubliées du monde
Je garde toujours les caresses et les câlins de ce miracle
  le son secret, la bonne chaleur
espoir de un nouveau jour
de silence et de bonheur
ainsi soit-il

Marco Bo https://cantidallaperiferiadelmondo.blogspot.com/2020/05/isolamento-n-37-e-senza-troppi-discorsi.html

presso queste dimenticate periferie del mondo
siamo piccoli fili
a volte ci annodiamo
è allora che sappiamo
di valere qualcosa
come alba e tramonto
e tutte le sfumature di luce
dall'inizio alla fine

......................

in these forgotten suburbs of the world
we are small threads
sometimes we get tangled up
that's when we know
we are worth something
like sunrise and sunset
and all the shades of light
from beginning to end

...........................

en estos suburbios olvidados del mundo
somos pequeños hilos
a veces nos enredamos
ahí es cuando sabemos
que valemos algo
como  amanecer y atardecer
y todos los matices de luz
de principio a fin
.................

dans ces banlieues oubliées du monde
nous sommes de petits fils
parfois nous embrouillons
il est alors que nous savons
que nous valons quelque chose
comme aube y coucher de soleil
et toutes les nuances de lumière
du début à fin