Tag Archives: New Orleans

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Crimson, Velvet and Bells

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At this late hour, the tall windows are dark and the iron balcony empty.

Perfect timing for a visit.

The address is the same and my skeleton key still fits.

Evidence of the modern world is everywhere yet this city never really changes. The shutters are repainted, but they’re still crooked. The roofs are patched, but they still sag. My guess-it was built this way. A perpetual state of elegant disrepair.

This building is no exception, though our love nest is less of a secret now. From exclusive parties and private séances, to quiet nights when locals slip through the back door-insiders know where the supernatural fringe and the mortal world collide.

It wasn’t our first time. That night in the Himalayas was innocent, or as innocent as it gets. This place witnessed different firsts. The vampire and her human lover, facing down fearsome legend and dire warnings in the name of love. The undead couple, just scratching the surface of their potential. Nobody imagined the magic that would come from our union.

The square table sits in darkness, place settings untouched, though one wineglass is missing.

Eight steps up the creaky staircase and distant chanting tickles my ears while incense wafts through the dark foyer. Candles remain unlit until I pass through the outer chambers and step through a brick arch. Then, flames jump to life, illuminating crimson tassels, antique paintings and the faces of Pharaohs.

The chair at the farthest end of the room beckons, the best seat in the house. I can see my reflection flickering in every gilded mirror. The missing wineglass waits, as if left by a phantom. One sip and I know it was meant for me.

The exquisite taste, intoxicating scent and thundering power of your desert blood, floating on the velvet melody of bells.

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Rip It Up

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I want it gone.

That bar room map, the daggers, chess pieces and smudged crayon crosses.

My soul weeps for my city-divided, carved up and ruined. This war needs to end-no matter what. I’ll bite my tongue, cut my hair and even sleep with the enemy to restore order to New Orleans.

A long shot-maybe.

When it’s all over, bells of freedom will toll in the tower of St. Louis, isolated blocks will blend back into the Old Vieux Carre and the soul of our great city will sing with rebirth. Sparkling rockets will glisten on the river as criminals and their ceremonial weapons dissolve in the mist.

Against the odds-definitely.

But, we’re the good guys. My ten year-old daughter told me so.

To my family in their days of innocence and starry eyed laughter, the gentle spirit of a Doctor who dedicated his career to those in need, the honor of my Father who defended Great Britain with his life, and my Mother who made me the woman I am today…I vow to fill you all with pride.

Now, whatever I do with my fiancée on the polished star of that antique table-I’ll close the curtains first.

There’s a child in the house.

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Pitch Perfect

     First, I have to raise a glass to my incredible followers and thank everyone for their extraordinary support!

How does anyone sum up their life in 140 characters? Sounds easy, but a hundred years in two sentences?

Short. Sentences.

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Unexpected Perks

I’m a New York girl…at least I was.

I fluff my curls into the Gulf breeze and flop back on the rickety dock to stare into the inky sky.

Fog wraps the channel buoy but her bells toll clear and strong, unlocking a flood of memories.

Remember when The Inverness set sail for the far side of the world? Eight clueless nurses on their adventure of a lifetime.

So clear in my mind, it feels like yesterday.

Ocean-Liner

 

“Could this mattress be any thinner?” I slapped the fabric and tried the fluff the lump that passed for a pillow. “I can feel the springs–each and every rusty one.”

I’m a bundle of nerves. I know the emergency drills are necessary but the thought of sinking is terrifying. Thank you Titanic.

“Angela, what did you do with that Panama Canal book?” I rolled over and poked the girl in the next bunk.

“Ow!” Angela sat up and smacked her head on the bunk above her. “I’m fine. I have plenty of cushion for my skull, in case anyone cares.” She smoothed her flame red hair and massaged her scalp. “Here it is.”

“I don’t think I can sleep. Charmaine can’t either.”

“Oh Sorcha, can’t we rest?” Charmaine moaned.

“No. We’re going up on deck and Angela is going to read us a story.” I don’t want to miss anything.”

Gathered at the rail of the Inverness we learned of the hardships, disease and loss of life endured during the building of the waterway.

“Ugh, I hate bugs.” Charmaine rubbed her arms and looked straight down the side of the ship. “So, why do we have to go up and down in these compartments?”

“We’re in the mountains, or something. I don’t get it either.” Elizabeth tossed up her hands. “They could have made these turns a little wider, though.”

Ivori stomped away. “You’re all idiots.”

 

 

   So long ago…so much has happened since.

Excuse me, Miss?”

I bolted up, rubbing my eyes. “Can I help you?”

“We’re on vacation–from Chicago.”

“Yes, how lovely.”  Didn’t you see I was busy?

“Why aren’t the bugs biting you? They’re eating us alive.”

“Oh…hmmm,” Mosquito carcasses lay around me in piles, the needles on their noses bent like crazy straws. “I must taste terrible.”

 An unexpected perk…for this New Orleans girl.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Free

Who knew the legend was true?

Vampires actually sleep in coffins when they aren’t in fancy homes where curtains guarantee protection from the burning rays of the sun. Breathing isn’t necessary for the sense of smell to work but I do it anyway. It makes me feel alive.

This past week I’ve glimpsed the beauty of being truly still in the company of one’s soul mate.

This trip has been interesting and enlightening, but if I didn’t know it before, I’m positive now. The river plantation and New Orleans are our homes, these places certainly are not. As spectacular as it is, the mansion is no place for a newborn. Blood donated from slaves quenches thirst but does nothing to satisfy his true hunger.

My lover asked me to free him–long ago–on the first night he drank my blood.

The French Quarter beckons nightly, calling us home in her sultry voice.

Will we ever be free?

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Still

The thunder beneath your feet? The sizzle up your spine?

Centuries-old legend scribed by authors, glorified by film makers, embellished in the endless imagination of dreamers–yet faced with proof–all ignore it.

The hiss in the alley, the growl ’round the corner?

Look deep in your liquor, stare hard at your lover, believe what keeps you sane but the answer is simple.

I’m here, I’m home. It was me.

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Missing my garden

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New York City bodegas amaze me. Anything and everything you could possibly need–24/7, including a bouquet in a pinch. I can’t help but stop and enjoy fresh cut flowers spilling onto the sidewalk. The scents draw me like a magnet but nothing nearly as strong as my favorite, Night Jasmine.

Queen of the Night.

The call of the elusive flower is one my first memories of New Orleans–that and the humidity. Scent so light it carries for blocks, but so heavy it lingers in the back of my throat where I can taste it for hours.

I’m sure my private garden at home has run wild–again–the fragrance must be overwhelming. That’s the thing about Jasmine–you can walk by it all day and not smell a thing, but when it blooms, in the dead of the night, you can’t escape the magic.

Home in twenty days.