Friday, December 30, 2011

...A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Summoning...

...Some rat-bastard chose that moment, that very insta-second as I was pulled through the ether, zooming weightless through the collective fog of the astral plane, to take a deep drag off a 10ft brass hookah (blessed by the goddess in some moonlight rite, I don't doubt - the bitch!) and caught me in his raving mind like a snag in fabric from some chipped fingernail and hooked me!  Hooked Me!  In his inhalation!  He proceeded to pass me about like some ditzy drunk girl at a frat party.  He shotgunned me!  Me! to a pair of pink lips that stank of second-rate mead and lofty, half-understood pagan chants and...the final insult...she then passed me on to the tabby cat perched on her patchouli-addled patchwork pants!

For nearly a year, I - Lillith - have been trapped in the soul of a...a...common fucking house cat!

WHY do these things always seem to happen to me?

I was minding my own humble business.  I was occupying my own humble space in my own humble split-level on the west side of town, skrying on my own humble seeing stones searching out the heart of a particular young man...

Oh, you get the idea.  I was doing my thing.  Not harming anyone (much)!  When out of the dark night I heard the irresistible call of the summoning.  Someone with the will and the power sought me.  There was naught in all the great universe but the sound of that voice and my swift desire to feel the breeze of those words against my skin, to kneel before that power and be consumed by it.  It's a demon thing.  You probably wouldn't understand...unless you do a lot of meth but, we've all got our little problems.

Anyway.  The summoner:  for such a one as me, there is no denying that call.  I felt my physical self cease to be as my core blasted off beyond the veil where travel is an instantaneous step from the very end of the earth to the beginning of the sun.  Instantaneous.  We're talking nano-seconds here, people.  And yet, in the breadth of that instant I was snatched, rudely, away.

I could feel more so than hear the scream of the summoner, a thing of sharp cutting edges and brittle twigs snapping and erupting into sudden flame.  His jilted lust aroused me...

Until of course I was sucked into a bowlful of mad sinsemilla and made one with the foul air of some old hippie's blackened lungs.

I tried to make the best of my situation.  Of course I did.  I was far from home (difficult to determine really where, as a cat, as I could not so much as get the kitty's brain to read street signs or articulate its little paws to do a fucking Google search, but it was warm and dry, and sandy, which aint Ohio in the late spring lemme tell you!)  and I was unable to break the bond which united me with the cat's soul.  I did however wield some power over the dumb creature.  I could not make its retarded anatomy form words but could effect its thoughts - such as they were - to my bidding in small ways.  I trained the hippies to feed me steak for instance, cubed just so and marinated in teriyaki.  It was quite the conversation starter when their brain-dead friends stopped by to dance naked in the moonlight and smoke hash off of home-blown and painted glass dildos.  In addition, I was able to use the cat's own natural instinct for destruction to make frequent nocturnal attacks upon my hapless jailers.  Many a scream lit the silence at 3:00am when little China Cat Sunflower (China for short) hopped upon the hairy legs of the humans asleep in their bed and began to slowly and deliberately claw and nest!  The occasional dead mouse/bird/squirrel/snake/handful of cockroaches found under a pillow or carefully tucked away with their stash kept the living lively for some time.

And yet, all the while, I could still feel the call of the summoner.  Could still feel the heat of the blast furnace of his passion and will.  Poor China Cat, nearly ripped apart during these intervals of renewed summoning, grew old and quite sour long before his time.  Unless I actively manipulated the poor thing it would curl into a tight ball of fur beneath a convenient piece of furniture and try to became very, very small.  You had to feel for it.  Certainly China Cat had not asked to be used this way.

Yet it was not enough to break the binding; the accidental binding of a hair-brained pothead thinking the right thoughts at the right time while smoking from a blessed and sacred pipe.

The months passed as months do.  I guess I counted its passing in bowls of teriyaki steak and nocturnal amusement as I had only China Cat's bizarre sense of time.  The hippie couple were suffering the ill effects of lack of sleep, and had begun to neglect the regularity with which said bowls of teriyaki steak were presented as well as mumbling about "donating" precious China Cat to some elderly straight that might "need the companionship" when my saviour finally arrived.

I snapped China Cat's head away from the dust mote he had been quietly studying as he curled up tight beneath a rickety ottoman barely touched by a beam of sunlight from a nearby window.  I could not hear the summoning, no, but that same sense of high heat, of determination, seemed to emanate from the front door of the cheesy little house.  Seconds later there was a knock that shook the door in its frame, and then a tall and very thin man--dark eyes and sallow skin, hair so red it seemed a corona of flame blowing away from a high forehead--burst into the living room.  China Cat didn't stand a chance.  His poor abused body shook, seized, and then imploded, leaving only a small burn and some errant fur upon the floor beneath the ottoman.  A loud pop accompanied this as of air rushing in to fill a void.  I was free.  A vague smear of essence free-floating beneath the furniture to be sure, but free.  I did not get to find out what savage revenge my summoner may have wrecked upon the hippies.  The pull of my physical being snapped my essence from the ottoman like a rubber band and as suddenly as a blink I was sitting on the floor of my living room staring down at the dry skrying stones in a bowl no longer filled with water.

And so do I report to you now, once again home and free, and no longer a damned cat, and having a beer because I can.  And searching random things on Google, because I have fingers.

I do not know if he still seeks me at all, the summoner.  I have not felt him again.  Too sad.

Friday, March 4, 2011

The $6,275.77 Cry For Help

A tepid solace surrounded everything.  By tepid I mean, sort of, luke-warm.  Right.  So.  A tepid solace surrounded everthing except my longing.  My desperate longing.
Well, I suppose I should have said that right off...I hate trying to blog here.  So many distractions!  But I meant to say, right off, that a tepid solace surrounded everything except my longing.  Which was desperate.  My desperate longing.

Let me start over.

A tepid solace surrounded everything but my desperate longing. 

That's better!

Oh, come on!  Tepid?  WTF?


A lukewarm solace surrounded everything but my desperate longing.
I had caught his scent and like some entranced insect I followed in the wake of its wafting for a block or two, staying just out of sight.  Aged gymshorts and sweated sneakers' chic!  A lulling hum carried on the wind to my waiting ears played a pathos of passionate drumbeats.  A black college stomp group on a romp.  A million individual feet beating a pattern of passion for yours truly!  I followed. 

In the thick of the night...wait, is that copyrighted?  There was a show? something?  who cares?  In the thick of the night a glistening of early dew wetted the lips of the lapping weeds, the reaching grasses and low-lying trees of the path past the elementary school through the wooded burbs.  Ah, the bliss of silent streets lit up in festival fashion by so many street lights, yard lights and floodlights - as though the sleeper would awaken!  I pass beyond the gaudy pastiche of middle-class nightlights, the full-coverage new car smell from each garage tainted by virgin skin-scent and gang rape, the stench of failure here and there where mortgages were falling behind, the stain of sin on back yard pools and sassy barbecue sets with expensive floral pattern pillows on cheap hand-me-down wrought iron patio chairs...
I digess...
His scent.  I followed.  As he lay fast asleep within the warm and welcoming cocoon of his vile dreams I raised myself up upon the pedastal he had erected in his mind and preached upon the heart of his soul that which would best serve me, Lillith, demon of Eden, Succubus of the West Side...
Of course, he awoke in a great heat, desperate to do my bidding.  Unsure of what my bidding might be (for he had slept only a few moments before the heat of passion roused him) he stomped out of his own room, checking each of the next rooms.  He found his sister; young, sleeping, her silent, curly blond locks baffled him.  He stumbled away into his parent's room, finding them deeply delving the sort of coitus that waits until the kids are fast asleep. They did not stir to the disturbance of their peace nor the noises of quickly backing away from their sanctum.  Rushed steps led the young one from his front door, down the walkway and into the night.  Moist with the newness of the world at such an hour, damp with the sweat of anticipation.  He followed the few blocks to the abode of the Succubus, led by the fingers of fate weighted heavily with my own silver rings.  He came there, to that place, and so he entered.
And Gods!  What a night!  For a low-brow sort of valley boy I must say he sure could...
Again, I digress.
Though the night was not without its bounty, I did but pay in full.  A tally by the Gods of some $6,275.77.

For he awoke from this engagement in somewhat of a stupor.
He found himself his immediate environs.  breaking free (and costing me a pair of my very best silk stockings, some $50.95 in value) he sought blindly in his rather overblown panic for some egress from my darkened rooms...
$3,025.00 to remove and replace with new the interior drywall and exterior vinyl siding of my humble abode after he launched himself at a convenient point far from the lental of any load-bearing structure and beat with his fists a means of escape...
$1,250.82 in lawyer fees, proving the young rogue had entered quite of his own accord, without any forknowledge of my own, attacking me in my humble sleep, in my humble home...
$300 in court costs...
$1500 in payoffs to the local media...
$149 to wine and dine Dionysus before he agreed to attack the kid's parents in a noble but ill-conceived attempt to distract them from the case at hand (instead, a long and rather disturbing divorce proceeding distracted them, all in all, the typical example of overkill employeed by my buddy Bacchus).
In the end, it was but a cry for help.

What is an old succubus to do, trapped here in the city?  Stained by the stench of the modern world?  Invade the dreams of the young.  Tempt that which has been left to the disdainful eye of fate.  Type another fucking blog amongst a million-billion blogs.

What am I to do but wait?  And hope.  If you can hear me, perhaps you can find me.  If you can find me, perhaps...there is some other fate that awaits me.  Some surprise, or secret.  Something more than one such as I should hope for?

Or maybe your lame ass will giggle and move on, and so...

There are always more good-looking boys in the burbs.