Once upon a time, a lovable baby boy was born. As the baby grew, he became even more lovable, until he reached manhood, and by then he was impossibly, unbearably loveable. He couldn’t allow anyone to be a friend because they might be killed out of jealousy. He couldn’t go to a rock concert because someone would see him and shriek, drawing the attention of many others. There would be violence and all would end in deaths from trampling or the like.
In time, he became rather proud of his effect on other people. Even the rich and famous wanted to hug and cuddle him, call him baby names. He never met a single person who behaved otherwise, until one day he went for a walk in the country. He was thinking about what to have for lunch and wasn’t looking where he was going. All of a sudden, he bumped into a pretty young woman waiting for the bus. He panicked, searching right and left, but there was nowhere to hide. Suddenly, an amazing thing happened. Instead of jumping his bones, the girl moved away from him. He tried speaking to her and she made a face at him. “Leave me alone!” she said. When he persisted, she hit him with her umbrella. Of course, a man of his stature, with all the human race crazy about him, could not allow this anomaly. He took her umbrella away and beat her to death.
The clock ticked away the minutes and hours. It was the loudest noise in the office, but George barely heard it; the sound had long since faded into his subconscious.
The office was large. He wasn’t sure how many people worked there; everyone was tucked into their own individual cubicles. The cubicles were arranged so the workers couldn’t see each other, but some flaw in the layout allowed him to see the girl next to him. He couldn’t see much, just a tuft of brown hair, the edge of a shoulder, the hint of a skirt. He’d never seen her face. He’d never spoken to her, but watching her gave him some comfort. She felt like a friend.
Every day in the office was the same. His in-box was always full when he sat down. It was his job to empty it. He processed orders and dockets. Goods received, goods shipped. It was the same endless routine, but today something was different. George put a completed invoice into his out-box and then paused. He felt more alert, more thoughtful. It suddenly occurred to him he couldn’t remember how long he’d worked in the office. He couldn’t remember how much he got paid. He couldn’t remember what he did when he left the office. Where did he live? Did he have a family? Sweat broke out on his forehead. Was he having a stroke? Was it a brain tumor? He stood, his head spinning. He stumbled over to the cubicle where the girl worked.
“I don’t feel well. I think I need help.”
She looked at him, her eyes dull and uninterested. Even in his distressed state, George saw she was significantly older than he’d imagined. Before she could respond, a disembodied voice echoed across the office.
“Will all employees return to their assigned cubicles.”
George looked up at the ceiling.
“I’m ill!”
“Will all employees return to their assigned cubicles immediately.”
“Please!”
“Will all employees return to their assigned cubicles immediately!”
The woman stared at him blankly without speaking. George returned to his cubicle, still feeling unwell.
The next morning, he noticed the woman’s cubicle was empty. He felt a brief sense of disquiet, quickly forgotten, as the drudgery of the day’s work blocked all conscious thought from his mind. But in his subconscious, the questions from the previous day were still there, causing a spark of self-awareness in the endless routine and conformity. His neurons fired, his brain cells reviewed memories and observations. A revelation popped into his conscious mind.
“I know where I am.”
In the distance an alarm sounded and the disembodied voice spoke once again.
“All employees remain seated. All employees remain seated.”
The voice continued, but George paid no attention. He stood.
“I KNOW WHERE WE ARE!”
There was a soft voice at his side.
“Come this way, George. Please.”
The man next to him was a stranger. Dressed in a neat business suit, it occurred to George this might be his boss. He felt his arm being taken and he was lead to a small, windowless office at the side of the main office. He’d never noticed it before. There was a table and two chairs. The man sat in one and indicated for George to sit in the other.
“This has only happened twice before, George. It is, if the word isn’t slightly inappropriate, a miracle.”
“What?”
“Your revelation.”
“Oh.”
“So, tell me, where are you?”
George hesitated.
“Go on, George, you were brave enough to shout it out to everyone in the office. Tell me.”
“I think…I think I’m in Hell.”
“And why do you think that?”
“It’s the same every day. The same boring, dull endless paperwork. I don’t know who I am, I don’t know where I live or what I do outside this office. I don’t speak to anyone. It’s the same routine every day. Hell isn’t fire and torture, at least that’d be interesting. Hell is this.”
The man smiled, then leant forward, his hand extended.
“Congratulations George, you’ve just been promoted.”
Typically, their exchanges were memes that mutated into gifs that advanced to snarky comments that evolved into competitive complaints about family obligations, traffic, and the weather. This simple, plaintive word was cause for alarm.
Lana tried Facetiming. Then she tried calling. There was no answer. The last time they had been together had been only a few days before when they had returned from a girls’ trip. They had chosen a short cruise, all inclusive. Clara had wanted a few days of not having to cook or clean or worry about calories. Lana had wanted fresh air and stimulation that came from anything other than the fluorescent light above her cubicle and the hold music she so often faced during business calls. Most of all, they wanted time together, uninterrupted. An ocean voyage had checked all boxes and they had packed together on Facetime, approving each other’s choices of vacation-wear.
They had planned to “twin” for their final dinner on board. This was a tradition they had begun over two decades before. At that time, they would twin for school, linking arms and walking the halls as if conjoined. They would infuriate their teachers by going to each other’s classrooms and they drove their parents crazy with insisting that they have twin sleepovers, often squeezing into a shared and strained sleeping bag.
For their twin dinner, they had packed matching dresses, barrettes, purses, and shoes. Physically, they looked nothing alike, yet their twin costume announced to the world that they were inseparable. As they were applying their finishing touches, Clara pulled out a tube of lip gloss from her makeup bag.
“Where did you get that?” Lana eyed the tube that looked naked without a label.
“My evil stepmother.” Clara laughed. “The witch finally did something right.”
“The first time in what…when did he marry her? Fifteen years ago? Twenty?”
Clara smacked her lips together, the gloss adding a coral sheen. “Feels like forever ago. She put a spell on him, a curse on the rest of us.”
“Especially us crusty foulers.” Lana wore the name given to them by Clara’s stepmother with pride. The woman accused them of being barnacles: overly attached to each other and a discomfort to others. She, more than any other, hated their twin games and would often mutter curses beneath her breath as they strolled around arm in arm.
“She talks like a longshoreman.”
“Smells like one, too.”
As Clara’s stepmother never failed to share her disdain for their friendship, this present for their vacation was completely unexpected.
Clara handed the gloss to Lana and watched her apply it. “The funny thing is she said it was created especially for my skin tone. But it works on you, too, and we are opposite ends of the color palette.”
Lana shrugged. “Black magic.”
***
They had both cried when it was time to leave the ship. They had been sad about having to return to their stressful lives, and stressful jobs, and stressful commutes. They had been saddest about having to separate again. In the days after returning, Lana had felt a matchless form of loneliness. Then she had received the mysterious text.
Lana wished she could spend more time trying to reach her friend, but she had to get ready for work. As she showered, she noticed a pain beneath her breasts. When she tried to investigate with her hand, she was met with a surface so sharp that it lacerated her fingertips. Panicked, she rushed to the bathroom mirror, wiping the steam away, to see barnacles beneath each armpit and under her breasts.
“This is crazy,” she whispered. She could hear the stepmother’s voice, dripping with vitriol as she said “crusty foulers.” How could they have been so stupid, believing the woman had given a gift with good intentions.
Lana knew she had to see Clara; she had to confirm that the symptoms were real, that she wasn’t losing her mind.
As she drove the short distance between their homes, she saw the skin on the backs of her hands shift from smooth to crusted with protuberances.
Lana smacked her palms on Clara’s door, calling for her friend. It felt as if it took hours for Clara to answer, but it had only been minutes.
“Lana!” Clara’s face was swollen from crying. She flung herself into Lana’s arms. “I am so sorry. I should have known. That witch. I should have known.”
“We only called her a witch to be mean, we didn’t really think—”
“I did,” Clara murmured into Lana’s neck, which was now wet with tears. “I always suspected…the things that went on in that house, the way my dad changed. I just never had proof and now…” She pulled back as if to examine her chest but found that their torsos were fused tightly together.
“Oh my god, pull,” Lana instructed. She tried sliding a hand between them to see if she could unhook them the way a cat’s claws could be unlatched when snagged on material.
“I can’t,” Clara was able to take a step back with her right leg, but her left had fastened to Lana’s. “It’s getting worse.”
“I am going to push you and it might hurt,” Lana warned uselessly, as her right hand had become affixed to Clara’s back. She had an odd recollection of playing Twister when they were younger, and how they had toppled to the floor, tangled together and laughing. As children, they had wanted to be together always. They hadn’t imagined it would be this hazardous.
Lana tried to take a deep breath, but it was difficult as Clara’s chest weighed against her own. When she tried again, they fell, landing heavily and unable to do more than squirm against the carpet.
Their bodies were becoming less and less distinct as they combined into one crusty shell.
Clara’s forehead melded into Lana’s nose. “Remember how we didn’t want to leave the cruise ship? We didn’t want to say goodbye?” Clara asked, her lips still able to move.
“Yes,” Lana responded, but it was more of a last breath being expelled as their faces attached.
“Are you sure you want a Ouija Board? Especially given that that stuff is… real now. I mean proven.” Reggie ran a finger along the edge of his bandana, sliding stray grey hairs back into place. “You just don’t know…”
Tony pulled a folded paper from his back pocket. “I know what I’m doing. It’s because it’s proved I want this tattoo. I’m gonna be a conduit.” He unfolded the paper and smoothed it on the metal tray. “Chicks will love it.”
The old tattoo artist glanced down at the photo. “I know what one looks like, son. What I don’t know is why you want it… on you. That seems risky to me.” He folded the photo and handed it back. “Put that away. The spirit world ain’t a joke.”
“Look. You do tatts for money, right? Are you discriminating?” Tony took out his wallet and showed off a wad of bills. “I got money.”
“How can I be discriminating? We’re both the same race, stupid. I just think…” Reggie glanced at the money in the wallet. “Fine, it’s your funeral. Let’s do it.”
The outline didn’t take but a few hours. When it was done, Tony lay on the table with a double row of alphabet arching his chest over his nipples. Beneath them was a straight line of numbers and a third line that simply said goodbye. Beneath his right collar bone was the word yes. Beneath the left was no. Reggie held up a mirror so Tony could see.
“Sweet,” said Tony. “I can’t wait to see that filled in.” He sat up. “Check this out.”
From his pocket, Tony pulled out a large, silver planchet on a chain. “I’m gonna wear this so I can be played with anytime.” He lay back down in the chair and put it on his chest. “Try me, dude.”
Reggie stepped back. “No way, that stuff ain’t a joke. Put it away.”
Tony laughed, reached for the planchet and froze in mid reach. He lay back down, blank faced.
“Knock it off,” said Reggie. “My shop, my rules. That shit’s not welcome here. Not ever.”
“I am not welcome here?” asked Tony. He didn’t take his eyes off the ceiling. His voice came out flat and without inflection. Beads of sweat popped up along the old man’s spine.
“No, not here.” Reggie licked his dry lips and slid along the counter towards the door.
On Tony’s chest, the silver planchet twitched along his stomach muscles, down his happy trail to stop at the words goodbye inked on his skin. He jerked upright, catching the planchet in one hand. He stood up.
“Then I go.” He swung his legs off the bench seat and stood up. His wallet fell to the floor. “Payment for your work,” he said without glancing down. “Our contract is fulfilled.” Without another word, he left.
When Reggie finally moved, it was to lock the door and flip the closed sign. That was enough for today.
Amelia looked through the crud-covered windows of the family home. She felt no urge to clean them as the scene they would reveal was far from idyllic. The constant dust storms and polluted rain had turned what was once a desirable location into a gray, depressing collection of mostly abandoned houses. She held her hand over her mouth and shook her head to dispel the feelings of despair.
Tom, her husband, wrapped his arms around her. She hadn’t heard him enter the room. The initial start that he had given her ebbed into a sense of security. She turned around and returned the embrace with an added kiss.
They both sighed and recomposed themselves before calling the children down from their bedrooms. Five minutes later Emma, Joanne, and Rebecca walked down the stairs.
“Let’s have a look at you, Emma,” Amelia asked. Emma was the oldest of their three daughters. She was eleven. She had rosy red cheeks and blonde hair. She was tall for her age, if not a bit thin. But then, everyone was thin in their family. The meager diet of oats mixed with a few greens didn’t lend itself to obesity, to say the least.
Emma shyly stepped forward and meekly smiled. “But I don’t want to go to school,” she complained.
“Now now, you know it’s time. Everyone needs an education and I can’t teach you anymore. What you learn will be important not just for you, but for everyone,” Amelia replied. “Don’t forget how lucky you are, most children don’t get a chance to go to school these days. You should be grateful to Dad for getting you a place.”
Emma sulked but then perked up for the sake of her family.
“But why does it have to be a boarding school, and why do I have to stay for so long?” she enquired.
“Darling,” her father replied, “the school is a long way away. You know we haven’t got any transport and with the rarity of gas these days they just can’t afford to run the school bus back-and-forth apart from at the end of the school year. Now get your things together. Look at the time, we’ve got to go or you’ll miss it.” He bent down and whispered in her ear “At least you won’t have to put up with Mum’s cooking until then.”
Emma giggled.
She said goodbye to her sisters before leaving the house, accompanied by her mother and father. They walked the fifteen minutes to the pick-up point at the old railway station. The last time the station had seen a working train was nearly a decade earlier. Within five minutes the rusty, once-yellow bus rattled its way around the corner. Emma hugged her parents, not wanting to ever let go. Eventually, she tore herself away from their embrace and boarded the decrepit bus. Tom spoke briefly to the school official.
Tom and Amelia slowly walked home. Before entering their house they stopped. They had lied to Emma and their other two daughters. Emma wouldn’t be coming home. After initial training, she would be sold off into servitude. A maid or cook to one of the wealthy families.
“At least she won’t have to go hungry living on what we can offer,” Tom said in way of reply to the question that wasn’t even asked. He held out his hand and showed Amelia the fifty silver coins that the ‘School’ official had paid them in way of compensation. “We’ve got to think of the whole family. This will keep us going for a few seasons, even more if we can save some of the grain we buy and manage to get some sort of harvest this year.”
Amila gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. She knew he was right, but she had no idea what she was going to tell Joanne and Rebecca when Emma failed to return.
***
There were about thirty children on the bus. Emma was seated next to an auburn-haired girl called Stacy.
“I hope we get placed with the same family,” Stacy said.
“What do you mean. We’re going to school?”
“Oh, god. I’m so sorry, didn’t you know?”
“I want to go home” Emma cried.
Stacy comforted her as best she could. She tried to get her to look on the bright side. She explained all the benefits of being in service. Good food, nice clothes. Even with all the work, it’d still be better than what they had to put up with at home.
***
Back at Emma’s house, Amelia stared solemnly at the family photo which hung on the living room wall. She lovingly caressed the image of Emma.
***
The girls were escorted from the bus into a large waiting room. One by one they were called. When Stacy’s name was read out she turned to Emma and said she hoped to see her soon. After about five minutes it was Emma’s name that was called out. A stern-looking women took her by the hand and led her down a long corridor. They entered a large hall. In front of her were rows of seats occupied by the cream of what was left of society. Emma was told to stand in the center of the hall.
“Lot number twenty three” a man’s voice announced through speakers on the wall. “Eleven years old and in good health. Can we start the bidding at one thousand pieces of silver?” He asked.
And so the auction began.
All too soon it was over.
“Going once, going twice, Sold at two thousand seven hundred silver pieces” announced the auctioneer. The couple who had successfully bought Emma smiled at each other. It was an expensive purchase, but in these times fresh meat was extremely rare, and so cost a lot of money. Only the rich could afford to eat it. But this couple, as were all of the others in the auction room were very, very wealthy. Shortages of food meant nothing to them when anything they desired could be bought at a price.
***
Tom and Amelia dished up their tasteless family meal in ignorance. It appeared that Emma wasn’t the only person that had been lied to.
Bloodied by my own thoughts and that which rages within me, I suffocate in the nearness of my own mind as it ruthlessly brutalizes what some would consider a soul.
Living with such agony is part of my nothingness; I cannot avoid the anguish that comes to me through doors that should be well sealed, shielded from such hated devastation. I beg this putrescence with which I exist for the briefest moment of solitude, longing to be unaware for an infinitesimal reprieve, yet it will never be granted.
I am fated to grasp that which I would avoid knowing. Trapped by what adores me with an innocence my very inhalation of breath betrays, longing all the while for an existence that remains lost to me. My mind is my confinement, escape a possibility that will shred all that I cherish.
All that I cherish… these words said with such conviction only prove me more the fool than I know myself to be. The jester’s role I choose willingly for the eternity that it shall be mine, as I would not wish its anguish nor bestow its grandeur upon another. What shines with blinding clarity from within gnaws its way toward the surface never to escape, ensuring my absolute isolation from the magnificence that would sing me to sleep and offer a world of brighter murkiness which dances just beyond reach.
Torture, this is within my reach. It engulfs my entirety, dulling each glimpse of the gleam caught by another’s eye, muddying every surface that would shine as the me who might have been had I not been locked away in this dungeon of madness. The key to my lock? I see it. It is the most beautiful thing I have ever set my eye to. It is sentient – it knows of the sway it holds over me. Entranced, I watch it dangle and shimmy in a breeze born of the hollow cavern that was once a thing of childlike promise within me. Yet sway further away it does with each passing eon encapsulated within the fraction of a moment. One upon another these waves of time pound relentlessly against my consciousness. Each moment stretched into an infinity while watched from below.
Ahhh, from below – that is where it crouches, watching and waiting for a chance to slip my guard; a minuscule crevasse in the wall though which it can seep. This night I believe it has gained entry for the echo of silence is all too deafening to allow feigned ignorance the opportunity to shield the undeserving such as I. Quivering bravado the only weapon against this consuming hatred.
I hear the thunder begin to rumble, I feel it resonate through my damaged psyche, I sense what is coming. Alone I will face all there is to conquer, all there is to fear. Tonight, something of greater menace stalks through the shadows of this storm.
The spaceship jarred as it landed. The computer had brought me down safely from orbit, but I was half dead, choking for breath, mind spasming from lack of oxygen. The recycler had broken down. Even my space suit was nearly bled dry of air. Somehow, I made it to the airlock. I didn’t know this planet. Was the atmosphere breathable? I had no choice but to find out. The outer hatch opened under my desperate palm. I staggered through, fell to hands and knees, slapped my helmet release.
A breath shuddered into my chest. Warm. Languid. It fed me. My lungs filled; my body drank the air like nectar. I coughed myself back to life, then forced myself to my feet. The view froze me. A low mist coiled around my legs, as if I stood on a cloud. But up through the fog thrust metal trees, of copper, black iron, gleaming platinum. Their leaves chimed in a zephyr breeze. Above me, the sky was clear and golden, like melted butter.
And in that sky drifted a silver city. I heard trumpets belling, and rising over the city’s spires swept a flock of beings. They were white, blindingly white, with feathered wings.
For an instant I wondered if I had died, or if I lay dreaming with a brain damaged from oxygen loss. But I’d always understood the difference between fantasy and reality, and the reality was that the creatures who dove toward me were angels. They began to sing. My heart swelled with the beauty. I lifted my own voice to join theirs.
The angels swirled before me in diaphanous glory, with luminous eyes honed and piercing. Their wings beat the mist. Their voices lifted higher and higher. For a moment I knew the harmonics of heaven. Then my voice faltered; I couldn’t match theirs. No human throat could capture this music. No human body could contain it. My heart hammered and hammered. Again my breath labored. The angels swarmed closer.
I wondered why they pointed at me as they sang? Why were their sweet lips drawn back over sharp, sharp teeth? Only when my ears and nose and eyes begin to bleed did I understand. This song was no song at all. In a rage of laughter, the angels of God tore me apart.
Zoe disconnected the telephone call to Libby before the teenager had finished speaking. Who was she to tell an adult that it was not right, whatever that meant, and some lame excuse about not being allowed to return to the flat. As if.
From her flat window in the galley kitchen, Zoe contemplated the sentinel crow perched in an oak tree while its family foraged in the grass. It was a bright afternoon, and the local pub, The Ship, had been open for over an hour. Through the open window, a gentle breeze fanned Zoe’s thin, brown hair. The crow’s family pecked and cawed intermittently, a sharp sound over the din of the television in the living room. Josh, her five-year-old, flicked from one channel to the next, from one cartoon to another, seemingly unable to find anything to satisfy him.
The sentinel crow, with dark, glossy feathers and beady eyes, kept its watch. It was sitting so still it could be nailed to the tree as a cruel act of taxidermy. Bloody mummified, she thought bitterly. Above, three other crows tumbled in the blue sky, making an aerial chase for a small bird. A sparrow, Zoe thought, but she couldn’t be sure.
“I’m hungry!” Josh shouted from the living room in a voice loud enough to be heard over the artificial cartoon sounds of a spaceship blasting off. “I’m hungry!”
“And I’m thirsty,” Zoe mouthed while staring in the direction of The Ship, a ten-minute walk from the flat, five if she speed-walked. She craved a pint of lager, Carling, and a packet of Salt and Vinegar crisps. Just a couple of pints and a laugh with the barman. It wasn’t much to ask, but it was a wormhole to another universe.
A cacophony of caws signalled an attack from other crows. Sounds so sharp they could rip the sky wide open. A rainfall of black feathers covered the grass, sending the sentinel crow into the fray.
So engrossed was Zoe in the vicious attack on its own kind, that she didn’t hear the front door open, or her son’s footsteps outside as he scavenged in the neighbour’s bins.
An injured crow lay motionless on the sunlit grass until vicious beaks tearing at its flesh brought its blackness to a parody of life.
I stumbled upon her in deepest, verdant woods, resting winged upon a throne of worn stone. Black tears bled down her face. She held a blade between her legs, a weapon that pierced my lonely heart. I could not help but love Cythraul. Every night I slept on the moss at her feet. Every day I knelt before her, enthralled, my hands lifted in appeal. It did not matter that she was a woman of no words, an avatar of chaos, perhaps a devil. She was mine. And I thought I would be forever hers. But one mist-filled morning she was gone, her throne empty. And so, in melancholy and forsaken desire, I seated myself upon her chair. My eyes began to weep in black; my shoulders began to ache as wings sprouted. Bereft of love, I will turn to stone, and wait.
An Interlude in Late Winter Marge Simon
As is his habit after dinner, he retires to the porch for a smoke. For a moment, he stands, smelling the crisp air before sitting down in his rocker. There’s a mystery about this evening, he feels it in his bones. Soon, cloaked within the shadows, a woman begins singing. She sings of a love lost and found again, a song that seems familiar, though he knows he is hearing it for the first time. He finds this unbelievable, yet already her voice is lulling him into a trance. He continues dreaming into the darkness of his garden, now hidden by snow and frost. Gradually he realizes he is seeing (and yet refusing to see) her emerge. She is unbelievably beautiful and she is walking straight up to him. Her eyes gleam with an uncanny light. Lost in her thrall, captive of her intoxicating kiss, he never feels the prick of her teeth or hears her throaty giggles as she drinks. He doesn’t remember till the dawn, when he awakes in bed next to the cold, lifeless body of his wife.
Late December in a freezing cemetery, a man kneels before a large tombstone. It is embellished with a glorious golden angel with outspread wings. Privately he finds it hideous, but it was her choice, the beautiful woman he now serves whenever she calls. His poor wife, buried six feet under, would never have been happy with the situation, so just as well.
Nemesis Lee Andrew Forman
I’ll wait as long as time will allow; until its very end, hanging on a bare thread. I count not years or decades, but millennia. Each passed without resurgence. But I know you’ll come eventually. Our last meeting, so long ago, but I remember every moment. I recall fire and death, the thick smoke filled with rot of the lesser kind. They pray to you, only to you. But you cannot save them—only delay the inevitable. I will rise again, until destruction has rained itself dry and all that remains is a brittle husk of what was once life.
Every Time You Fall Elaine Pascale
The statue was crying.
Black rivulets of oxidized bronze ran down its cheeks.
There was no emotion behind its tears, simply the evolution of metal.
The body lying in the grass had long since stopped crying.
There had been tears of fear. She had known what was coming when she realized that this would not be sex work, but would be something much, much worse. She had cried, but she had no one to cry out for. She was alone.
Her family would not be crying. Not yet.
Their status of no contact meant that they would not know she was gone.
And it was not certain that the news, once received, would be met by grief.
He was crying.
Some of the tears were just sweat from digging. Even though the ground had been softened by a recent official burial, the act was still strenuous.
Some of the tears were attributed to hope. He was placing her body on top of one that had been sent off ceremoniously. He hoped some of that love would rub off. He hoped that the body he was sinking into the ground would no longer be alone.
But most of the tears were from knowing that it was only a matter of time before his master hungered again.
Judgement Day A.F. Stewart
I see your sins, your pious hypocrisy, wrapped in your hollow indignation of righteous behaviour. You scream about moral decay, while hiding your own corruption. Such small minds, devoid of compassion and decency.
Yes, I see your sins.
For I am your judgment.
Not a fallen angel, but a willing devil, waiting for the day to fulfil my duty. I am creation’s sentence on wanton cruelty, its impatient destiny. I decry your politics, your entitlement, and any protestations of ignorance will not matter in the end. Time ticks down for you all.
For I know your putrid hearts and I will not be swayed.
Soon, I will take up my sword and cleanse the unctuous in my fire, rid the world of its liars and its sanctimonious frauds. The day of reckoning comes, where my shadow of judgment will scourge the earth.
In my wake, I will leave a legacy of scorched bones and screams.
You will thank me in the end.
Or you will die.
Fallen Angel RJ Meldrum
Sarah was an only child, forced to move to a town with an unpronounceable Welsh name by her mother after the divorce. It was ‘back home’ for her mother, but it was a desolate, strange place to Sarah. She felt lost, friendless.
Her only solace was the cemetery. It was disused, overgrown. Here she could find peace amongst the headstones; it was quiet, with only bird song and the rustling of leaves. Here she could forget her woes.
As she explored she encountered a statue of a female angel, replete with outstretched wings. There was a word etched at the base. Cythraul. An internet search turned up the English translations from the Welsh. Devil. Objectionable person.
Sarah wasn’t to know, but she had wandered onto unconsecrated ground. These were the graves of criminals and the insane. No blessing was whispered over these resting places. The grave over which the statue sat was special. Robert Morgan. Forgotten for decades, his reign of terror in the town during the early 1800s had resulted in the death of twelve young women before he was finally caught and executed. The statue, erected by the grieving families, was intended as a call for eternal vigilance, for the villagers swore he was possessed by the Devil. It was a warning long forgotten.
Sarah never wondered why the statue had been erected. It was just a peaceful, shady spot. She sat down on the grass and snoozed in the heat.
***
It was well after dark when the search party found her. Her crumpled form lay at the base of the statue. The grass was disturbed, the soil pushed up from underneath. There was no obvious link to the crime, but some of the more imaginative police officers felt it looked as if something had emerged from below.
I Watch Miriam H. Harrison
I am a Watcher—a holy one of wing and sword. Some look to me as a guardian. Some call on me in their hour of need. Some know me as an angel of vengeance, of justice, of last resort. Some pray, deeply.
They are all disappointed.
I am only what I am—a Watcher. I cannot lighten a burden. I cannot save you from what is. I offer no comfort but this: I watch. I see. Nothing escapes my weeping eyes. Your burden, your struggle, your loss. It is seen.
The Archangel Kathleen McCluskey
The battle worn warrior, his blade dripping with the blood of the damned, sighed deeply. Michael sat on the nearest rock as his heavy head hung in heartache. His long dark hair clung to his face in sweaty strands. The armor that had seen him through many battles, was now tarnished and stained with remains of the fallen. He slumped his shoulders and tried to compose himself. Michael’s once pristine white wings were now stained with crimson polka dots, the bottoms muddy with blood and earth, he flapped them violently. Large feathers floated about him as he pulled them in close to his body.
He stood and stretched, sheathing his broadsword. Michael looked around at the battle torn earth and shook his head. The mighty archangel looked at the carnage. He knew that his broadsword had taken the lives that he now stepped over. He was looking for those that had summoned his ancient adversary. The mighty Cithraul was a formidable foe, his minions were loyal, and gave their lives for their master. Michael had already sent the malevolent evil back to the underworld and was now focused on the cult members that summoned the wickedness.
The cult members were oblivious to the ramifications of summoning the Cithraul. When the name of his mighty archenemy is spoken during a spell, Michael awakens. The guardian of the innocent, waiting bound in marble, will remain vigilant for eternity.
Devil Wings Harrison Kim
I sit forever clasping this stave, rained on by your so-called God, my wings two stone birds on either side of a keyhole, open to the wild. You, the sinner, bow on your knees, hoping for my head to drop, to allow your soul a flight through the gap. Yes, you are still within your body. There is only one way out of your sin and guilt. Take the razors and slash a straight cut. To make sure, clasp the knife tight, slit your own throat. Release yourself and my head will drop.
All it takes is the will to be free. Freedom is there, on the other side of the keyhole, and can be reached only through your willful actions of repentance. Beyond will be emancipation, heaven in emptiness and weightlessness, liberation from your own body. Once released, your purified soul will rise before me cleansed, and fly through the keyhole gap, into the immortal beyond.
Go ahead, hit your body harder, smash into your bones until the flesh crushes into bruise. Of course, that won’t be enough. It never is. You’ll have to take up the knife, and slash. After all, sinner, God is dead and you can and may accomplish anything. This will be your last and greatest goal. Imagine the power and pressure of your guilt, and let it move you!
I will be here after you finish, my head of stone falling forward as you rise through the gap. When you’re past me, I’ll snap my neck back and no-one will know any difference, except for the sight of your corpse still kneeling with the bloody blade beside it and the knife through its neck.
Soon Nina D’Arcangela
I sit in repose and wait. She comes, or so the wind whispers. My bride, my forever-after, or rather my for-now; there have been others – she isn’t the first, nor will she be the last. Her song rang my ears in dramatic soprano fashion as flame licked her flesh, and I knew she would be mine. Eleven hours endured, yet still she pulls a charred breath. What hair didn’t crisp matted into the mélange of near liquid skin and cloth; so much agony, such useless suffering. I have waited near on a full whip of this moon for her to come. Soon, my sentinels confide, very soon.
Infinite snowflakes fall. Their pearl quilt builds upon pavement, tires tread, nerves tense. Sweaty palms grip the wheel. The picturesque wonderland glows in the headlights. Slow and steady, the destination of holiday cheer, of most special kin. The journey swerves upon beautiful danger. She tries to match the pitch and right the car. But nature draws her to its hold without release. As she watches the trees flip upside-down, the rose-colored box travels before her eyes, ejected from its place on the empty passenger seat. As metal crunches and glass shatters, she hopes that gift will reach her little Snowflake.
Pen of the Damned 