****10,000 VIEWS AND GROWING ****

Thanks so much to all who have helped make this milestone happen! I had hoped to hit this mark by the end of two years and here we are! I'm truly grateful

I started this blog with the sole purpose of introducing the idea of a science-fiction vampyre who was truly similiar to the traditional vampires of lore. Nathan tries to avoid sunlight (although he can step out on cloudy and rainy days, and can actually walk in the light but only if he's loaded up on blood in advance since sunlight can dry him out to the point of becoming dust). He sleeps in the ground (because certain nutrients his body needs can only be absorbed from there). And he can shape-shift becoming a horde of rats, bats, dogs, mist, grow wings... but is restricted to how big he can do these things. He cannot make more than what there is of his physical being (law of mass). And of course, he is extremely long-lived.

The blog has been chronicling short stories about his long life and some of the people he has met over the last 150 years such as Mae West

the Marx Brothers,

 

Silent film stars like Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle and Buster Keaton

Ballroom dancer turned heart-throb Rudolph Valentino

And many others he worked with in Vaudeville before they became movie stars, along with others whose lives he's touched such as victims of the Nazi Holocaust and simple everyday people. There are also entries from the supporting cast who allow you to see Nathan through their eyes. Their stories show many sides to him and why he has come to be a guardian angel who has watched over not only them but in some cases their parents, grandparents.

To date there are over 41 short and somewhat longer stories on the blog, with many more to come. I plan on bundling some of the stories next Christmas as an anthology, since there are so many entries on the blog for people to wade through these days.

In the meantime, please share the blog link with everyone you know and then help them to check out Nathan's first full-length novel story "The Vampyre Blogs - Coming Home" where he comes back to his hometown Pointer, West Virginia. He has come back many times but this time its to stay to save the manor he called home from the wrecking ball, as well as the 1000 acres of pristine land which would fall prey to ruthless lumber companies and coal mining corporations.

Its a lonely homecoming, as far as he knows, but someone has been waiting for him to come back. Someone who saw him leave to fight in the Civil War back in 1862 and a year later died in his arms shortly after his transformation which occurred in a Para-Earth where he encountered two strange lifeforms. One which kept him alive, while the other wanted him destroyed... and still does. In fact, the latter has found its way into this reality and is now closing in on Pointer to finish him off once and for all for he's the only force that can keep it from absorbing all the dead in this world, even if it has to make more people dead to complete the job.

You can find the novel both in e-book and trade paperback form at Amazon, Barnes and Noble:

Amazon:

https://www.amazon.com/Allan-Krummenacker/e/B00B1W8TEU/ref=dp_byline_cont_book_1

AmazonUK:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_noss/254-1323646-2148415?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=allan+krummenacker

Barnes and Noble:

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/Allan+Krummenacker?_requestid=362722

For Apple and Kobo readers use Smashwords:

https://www.smashwords.com/books/byseries/1383

Thanks again and stay tuned for more short stories to be posted soon, including some new holiday tales involving Nathan and his extended family. Until then, keep reading and writing my friends.

Nathan's Private Journal, October 12th,2011 "The Theater" - Part II...

Staring at the playbill in my hands, I couldn't believe my eyes.  It was a an old vaudeville poster, only the paper it was printed on was quite new.  Then I spotted the dates for the performance and blinked.  "December 2011!" I read out loud and then turned to Olivia and Gina, who were standing there trying to look innocent and hopeful at the same time.

"You want to put together a vaudeville show?" I said, raising an eyebrow curiously.

"More like a review of some of the more famous acts," Olivia told me.  "And no one knows them like you do."

"That's true," I admitted and looked at the floorboards of the stage.  They weren't the original boards of course.  I'd had those torn up and replaced when I bough the theater back in 1970, with an old friend who'd talked me into buying the place with her.

I remembered feeling a little melancholy about having the original floorboards torn up.  After all, I made my stage debut on them back in 1911 with the Marx Brothers.  It was only a small part, but the brothers had made sure my brief moment on the stage had been a hilarious one.  But after that night, a number of the other performers started asking me to help out in their acts.  Soon I was spending most of my time in front of the curtain instead of behind it, like it had for ten years.  Not that I had minded. 

From the day I'd started in 1910 until that night, I had worked and learned every aspect of what went on behind the scenes of every show.  From wardrobe, to sets, to actors having jitters or meltdowns, I'd seen it all and had helped out whenever I could.  By the time my friends had dragged me onto the stage with them, I'd even stood in for the stage manager a number of times.  Everyone seemed to turn to me, and so many asked time and again, "Why aren't you out there?"  This question came up more and more after I started helping some of the performers during rehearsal by standing in as they straight man or victim.

My old pal Roscoe "Fatty" Arbuckle was the first who started training me to be a stand-in for some of his acts, but he never got to use me, as much as he wanted to.  He wanted to see me get my moment to shine and did that night, when the Groucho and company finally got me out in front of the audience, and I loved every minute it of.  Roscoe had just started doing movies by then and had urged me to go with him to Hollywood and be part of his films.  But alas, film could not capture my image and I came back here, much to the delight of the brothers.  

Like Roscoe, Groucho and his siblings had learned of my true condition and found new ways to exploit some of my abilities as well as teaching me all about comedic timing, patter, musical instruments and other gifts.   We were able to pull off certain tricks that defied all explanation and even had more than one professional magician wondering how we'd pulled them off.  (But that's a story for another entry)

But they weren't the only ones who were glad to have me back.  The other performers had missed my easygoing manner and how I handled things both on and behind the stage.  And I soon found that even the crowds had missed me, as well.   Even though I never headlined an act of my own, the audience always greeted me warmly. But soon my time at this theater came to an end, as I moved on with  Groucho and company to tour other bigger venues in the vaudeville circuit.  But every so often, we'd come back to this theater and it was on one of those return engagements that I found myself being asked to help out one of the newer performers, who needed a silent straight man to react to her singing.

Naturally I was only too glad to help out and that was when I was introduced to a petite fourteen year old girl, who would become one of my dearest and most cherished friends.  And in 1970, she would be the one who called me back to this theater, which had by then had been abandoned and practically falling down, and talk me into buying it with her so we could restore it to its former glory.  

But, on the day we met, neither of us knew what the future was going to bring us.  Or that we'd become so close that we'd fall deeply in love.  She only gave me her stage name the first time we met, "Baby Mae" she called herself.  But down the road the world would know her by a slightly different name.  And she would become not only a star but a legend...

  

To be continued...

Nathaniel's E-Journal October 2010: A Stroll Down The Hollywood Walk of Fame and Memory Lane...

 Today I signed my first contract with a movie studio.  Who'd have thought it.  After five years of writing, rejections, publishing my first short story and then several novels,  one of my works is going to be made into a movie.  It's been a heady experience, even for a guy who's been around for so long.  

I didn't have to come all the way out to here to Hollywood to do the signing, but I wanted to.  It had been a long time since my last trip out here and I wanted to see how much things had changed.  

As usual I waited until evening to make my pilgrimage and began exploring the streets.  Eventually I found myself wandering down the Walk of Fame.  I hadn't even realized it at first, which goes to show how much my head was still in the clouds from my movie deal.  But when I did notice I couldn't believe whose name was on the star at my feet.

For a moment I couldn't move and had to fight back the red-stained tears that wanted to come.  But I knew a man crying blood would really cause a commotion, or a land me a movie role with my luck. so I held them back and just kept staring at the star.  

I remembered the first time I saw him on stage.  It was my job that night to man the 'crook' (the comedic giant hook) to pull acts that were bombing off the stage (which I sometimes hated).  I never liked seeing anyone fail, bu sometimes it was for the performers own good.  You never knew what might get thrown at you instead of a rotten tomato.  The crowds could get pretty ugly some nights.

But on this night I was told that the performer wanted it to be used.  So I did as I was told.  Next thing I knew this big, heavy fellow came out on stage and began singing and oh what a voice he had.  It was so lovely, but some people in the crowd started booing and tossing things onstage.  I didn't know it at the time, but those people were put there by the stage manager, so Mr. Arbuckle could dodge and tease as he continued his song.  The man was so nimble I couldn't believe my eyes.  It was like watching someone moving on air, especially when he danced.  I was so transfixed I almost forgot to do my job and try to use the oversized hook to get him.  But I remembered just in time and almost got him... almost.  The man somersaulted out of the way and wound up in the pit with the musicians, making the audience go wild. 

Afterwards, I went to find the fellow to congratulate him on a fantastic performance.  As I searched for him, I asked one of the other performers where I could find the man.  I hadn't caught Roscoe's name and had to describe him to which the fellow I was asking said, "Oh you mean Fatty, that's what we all call him."

Instinctively, my back stiffened.  I'd known a number of soldiers who got unflattering nicknames, which they hated and I refused to repeat.  Straightening up I said evenly, "The man has a real name you know?"

As soon as those the words left my lips, a voice behind me said,  "Yes I do.  It's Roscoe Arbuckle and I'm pleased to meet you."

Turning I saw the man I'd been seeking who gave me a big warm smile and a hearty handshake.  It was the first of many encounters.  I found Roscoe to have a heart bigger than his frame.  He'd let me help him practice routines and songs, as well as teaching me how to take pratfalls and do comedy.  I had many mentors when it came to learning how to be funny, but Roscoe was the first.  I got so good, he wanted to use me out on stage, but I wasn't ready.  Some of his performances took place in the daytime and of course I could only operate at night.  This puzzled him at first, but later on he learned my secret (a tale for another time) and quickly understood.

But our friendship continued to grow and blossom, as did I under his guidance.  By the time four brothers: Arthur, Julius, Leonard, Milton and Herbert (better known as The Marx Brothers), entered my life I was very well versed in comedy.  However, when Hollywood beckoned we had to say farewell for a time.  He had wanted me to come with him and I readily agreed.  However, the studios insisted on some test footage be shot.  Roscoe knew about my condition by this time and insisted on doing the shooting himself.  So he and I, along with his cousin Al St. John shot a few scenes only to discover that film could not capture my image.  The footage, which I still possess and have carefully had restored, is quite funny.  It looks as thought Roscoe and Al are dealing with an invisible ghost who's handing or tossing things to them.  For a brief while Roscoe thought about using me anyway for such a film, but it would've meant others finding out about what I was so the idea was scrapped and I went back to Vaudeville.

However, Roscoe and I kept in touch regularly and visited each other frequently.  Every so often on a rainy day when he was shooting indoors, I got to visit the set and met his protege' Buster Keaton.  As it turned out I already knew Buster from his early days as a child star when he'd performed with his parents.  

I also got to meet Roscoe's dog and fellow star Luke.  Luke was an English Pitbull who belonged to Roscoe's wife Minta Durfee.  She'd gotten the dog as a bonus from one of her producers after she'd pulled off  rather dangerous stunt for a movie.  Luke was a sweetheart and took to me right away.  To this day I still consider Luke one of the most talented animals I'd ever met.  I often model my 'Black Puppies' after him, especially their behavior.  He was such a fun dog.

Looking down at the star I sighed quietly and said, "Well Roscoe, I'm finally making my mark here in Hollywood.  I hope I do you proud, old friend."  With that I looked around to make sure no one was around or looking at me.  Then I did a few steps from Roscoe's "Butcher Boy" film, remembering how he'd taught it to me, and then took a bow.  

After that I moved on.  But as I did so I heard a faint clapping coming from behind me.  I turned but didn't see anyone.  Not that they couldn't have been hidden someplace, but a part of me liked to think Roscoe was giving me the applause he'd always felt I'd been denied so many years ago.

Nathaniel's E-Journal, August 2005... Beginning A New Chapter Part-II

Another night and I stand once more in my artist's studio located on the top floor of the building that houses my club "The Crypt".  No one's allowed up here unless I say so, and tonight I wish to be alone with my thoughts.  For two days now I've been wrestling with the idea of trying my hand at writing novels.    

In some ways the idea seems ridiculous.  Me? An author?  

Then another question comes to mind in the form of one word, why?

That's the sticking point for me.  Why would I take up writing?  Because I'm bored and want to try something new that I've never done before?   It wouldn't be the first time.  When I joined vaudeville, it was simply to keep myself busy and working behind the scenes as a stagehand at night seemed ideal.  But then I started to get to know the performers like Julius, Arthur, Herbert and Leonard... better known as the Marx Brothers.  Their range of talents fascinated me.  The number of instruments they could play, or the snappy patter they should spout on a moments notice never ceased to amaze me.  Plus, they seemed to sense the feeling of being 'lost' and 'adrift' in me, which made them reach out so I could be a part of their comeraderie.  But it didn't stop there.  Others in the troupe welcomed me as well, like "Fatty" (Roscoe Arbuckle), the Keatons, Harry and Bess Houdini, the lovely and sweet Mae West and so many others...

Before I knew what was happening they'd be teaching me all kinds of skills and even dragging me out on stage to help out in their acts.  I could write endless stories about those days and the ones that came before.  

My days on the battlefield while serving in the Union Army.  So many stories were lost there that only I know about.  The hopes and fears of my brothers in blue, as well as some of those who wore the rebel gray.  In 167 years of walking this world, I've not forgotten a single person who I've met, good or bad, I remember them.  I also remember the stories they shared, the sweethearts they pursued and the outcomes.  

So many stories to choose from, but where would I begin?  

I brought up the idea of my taking up writing to Brian and his family last night at dinner.  Much to my surprise no one laughed.  Instead they eagerly supported the venture.  Brian in particular urged me to take a couple of creative writing courses at the college where he teaches history.  "We've got some really good instructors there and they could really help you hone your skills?" Brian pointed out.  "I've taken a couple of them and they were really helpful.  Of course, you'll need to decide on a genre to write in.  Agents and publishers like to represent someone who has a specific kind of novel."

"You should write romance," his daughter Lisa suggested with a twinkle in her eye as she looked at me.  Even though she's only a child I have a feeling she's developing a crush on me.  I've seen that look before in girls her age and even younger, over the decades.  But only one ever managed to land me, but she was extremely persistent.  

Even now I can feel her eyes on me after seven decades.  Looking up I find myself staring into a pair of dark eyes, forever captured in oil.  Dark hair frames those eyes along with the lovely face and strong chin.  "Magda," I whisper and smile.

Our time together was not nearly as long as either of us had hoped, but it was magical.  Our first meeting and her prolonged pursuit for my love could fill several volumes.  Her persistence paid off and after three years she became my wife at the young age of sixteen.  

As I stand there lost in thought, the sounds of music reaches my ears from several floors below.  The Crypt is now open and is already filling up with the usual crowd.  Even from here I can sense the whirl of emotions and life down there.  Laughter, sorrow, broken hearts, lust, hopes for love...  

A flash of light through the window catches my eye.  After several nights of gathering clouds it looks as rain is finally drawing near.  I make my way up the stairs and onto the roof of the building to watch the approaching storm.

I see lightning in the distance over my hometown, it's going to be a good one.  But instead of retreating back inside, I stay where I am and feel the breeze on my face and close my eyes.  I can feel the storm's energy on the wind and without thinking, several lines of words describing the feeling come to mind.  Some of the words are trite, but they still help paint a picture within my head.

Suddenly my eyes shoot open as realization sinks in.  Painting a picture, but with words instead of oils or acrylics!   No pencils, no paintbrushes, just words that form an image or a scene within the readers mind.  That's what an author does. But they don't just paint one picture, they paint a whole series of images, coupled with emotions and thoughts.  Yet, I can still use my skills as a painter as well.  Illustrations and book covers... yes.  

And I have so much material to draw upon.  My own experiences as well as those of people who's memories lives I keep alive within me.  I've shared their stories countless times with descendants so they are never forgotten.  

But what kind of stories to write? 

From down in the alley I hear the sound of raised voices.  Looking over the edge I see a young couple having a heated argument.  The boy is obviously breaking up with the girl and leaves her in the alley alone.  But she does not remain that way for long.  Three others, friends of hers arrive and comfort her.  One of them is a young man who obviously has feelings of his own for her.  But instead of being foolish and declaring his affections, he merely gives her the support and comfort of the friend she needs right now.  

But I can sense a change in her.  It's not big, but her gratitude to him and the two girls with him is obvious.  I hear her say she wishes more guys were like him as they step inside.  Perhaps something will come of it eventually.  

However the thing that gets me most is the image that forms in my mind.  Just like the other night down in the club, I could see other figures, superimposed over the trio.  Their outfits changed several times within the span of a few seconds.  I saw flappers, soldiers, suits, gowns, hippies, but their actions were all the same and leading towards one thing... romance.

"Love Across Time..." I murmur as the first drops of rain start hitting my head.  

Why not?  I've seen and experienced it so many times in the last fifteen decades.  Oh, the settings and ways one behaved have changed over time, but the feelings never do.  

Feeling elated at the idea, I spread my arms wide and let the rain and story ideas pour over me.