Unholy Communion

Sister Philadelphia lit the candles in the vestibule and inhaled the rich incense wafting from the church.  The pews were empty, and darkness yawned across the altar, its maw stretching up to the crucifix where an impaled Savior grinned arcanely at his dismemberment.   The flames drew out the stained glass window and outside, an early snow.  Sister Philadelphia heard a crow caw in the dripping pine, and she gathered her habit and red shawl around her shoulders as she fared the evening twilight and flakes of ice in the withering sky out to her small cell.  Her sisters were fast asleep, tired out from worship, and she had had the evening shift on All Soul’s Eve.  Sister Philadelphia gave a happenstance glance at the graveyard, full of weeping angels, and she imagined them singing alleluias in weeping Christ’s passion.  How crucifixes and the crutches of Saint Lazarus and wounds of Mary Magdalene, though only of the heart, were strange soliloquies on temptation.  It was said Christ harrowed Hell, and Sister Philadelphia was always afraid of the darkness, but so she braved the closing shift, shut the doors of the church, and entered the convent.  Just a few footfalls walk to the end of the hall, her boots crunching snow, until she drew out a skeleton key and opened her cell.  Inside, a small bed, a tiny nightstand with a Bible, and a candlestick.

A chill passed over the room as her boots, thoroughly soaked through and clinging with orange leaves, were taken off.  The vents let in the warm air from the fire in the main hall and she arrayed them so they directed their heat at her bed.  Shivering, she gathered herself and turned to the Gospels, her candle drawing out a facsimile of a smile from the cross on her wall.  She tucked herself into her blankets and read over John miming the verses and parables on her memorized tongue.  It was her favorite.  She had always been an outcast in her small Rostock village for so loving study, in a time when women shouldn’t read and were expected to suckle babes then turn dirt in an early grave, half-sick from motherhood and needlework and butter churning.  No, she chose the sisterhood, if only to learn to read.  The rest of the trappings, from Christ to the Masses, she wasn’t too sure about.

Suddenly, a knock at the door, only she was dressed in her linen night shift.  She gathered her skirts, smoothed her dark hair, and peered out the lock with eyes like amber bezels.

Darkness, writhing darkness, and beneath that, boiling red.  Wicked heat came from the door’s entrance, like the furnace of a hellmouth.

Sister Philadelphia opened the door to find herself face to face with a man of red skin, ram horns, fineries she had never seen yet plain in the dress like some respectable nobleman, dripping gold from his pointed ears, and curled black locks oiled to shine boot polish bright.

He grinned like a cat arching its back.  “Sister, I’m cold, would you but let me warm myself in your blankets?”

His eyes were infernos.  All yellow heat and slit iris.

She would have screamed, but it died in her throat, and the Devil takes no prisoners, only the willing.

She saw the chance to test what the priests and sisters taught her.  A devilish chance, as it were, but scripture nonetheless.

“If I read, will you listen, oh Dark One?”

The Devil laughed.  “I’m a man of the book, Sister.  A traveler too.  Gypsy or not, I’m afraid I’m a rambler, and I always fancy a word with pretty girls.  To hear the gospel from your lips would be celestial temptation most frightful.”

“Then come in.”

Sister Philadelphia was never much of one for God, more for he who taught humanity knowledge and to quote scripture in their sin.  To have the Devil at her doorstep, why, on All Soul’s Eve?  It was meant to be a test.

And he was a might handsome, as handsome as sin.

She locked the door shut behind them.

“In the Beginning was the Word…”

He draped a blanket around him like a cape, then examined the cross.  “Grapes from the vine, yes.  To be made into the vintage of wrath or mercy is simply up to the maker of the wine.”

The room was like a dragon’s womb, enchantingly hot, all radiating from the Devil.

He looked at her with obsidian and vice.

“Tell me, you were there.  Is it truly as they say?  God created the universe in seven days?”

“More like He gave a sneeze and we were all shat out on accident.  You must admit, this Book is a bit lacking.  Where’s the bit about where bellybuttons come from, their purpose, really?  I invented them.  I also invented opposable thumbs.  And the pearly seat of womanly pleasure.  That was my greatest one.”

The Devil examined his claws.  “It’s all trite bullshit in the end, this Book.  Now I would have written it differently: In the Beginning was a Woman, and she lusted after a Star.”

Sister Philadelphia’s eyes grew wide, curiosity after first succulent bite.  The candle stubbed out, but he glowed like coals in the dark.  “Eve, yes.  I have always loved her, though Father Philip says she is Sin.  I gave everything I had for Knowledge, for the Word.”

“In that, inquisitive Sister, we are joined.  Woman is born hungry.  Hungry for words.  A last rib made of ink.”  The Devil took the cross down from the wall and respectfully placed it in the nightstand drawer, if only so his Father did not witness corruption.  The Devil is a gentleman, after all.  “Tell me, Sister, was it worth it?  Giving up life for this back country parish?  All so you could be a learned woman?”

“We feed the poor.  We tend the sick.  In those duties, I rejoice.  But to read, why, I would have become lame and dumb in order to understand language on the page.  Someday, I will write my own books. Like Teresa or Hildegard or Catherine.  I have it in my bones.”

“I’ve written many books in my time, sweet Sister.  Would you like to taste a Star?  It is the drink of poetry.  The flesh of God is the Sun.  He used to nurse us from His light.”  And with that, the Devil pulled a silver pear from his breast pocket.  Sister Philadelphia gasped at its succulent scent and without hesitation bit in.  Its flesh was blood red but tasted like sugary providence.  Fire warmed her belly, and the Devil cradled her head in his hands as she devoured it.

“Kiss me, I have never tasted a man’s lips, and what passes between a Bride and Darkness is best left to the day souls walk the Earth.  It shall be our secret.”

“What is your name, sister dangerous?”

“Philadelphia.  Just Filly.”

“So Filly, will you give me a prayer each night for my soul in exchange for a kiss?  No one has yet to pray for me.  I do so grow lonely down below.  If you appeal to your God, perhaps Father shall grant me some mercy.  You are supposedly a holy woman, after all,a and your nightgown smells of frankincense and myrrh.  I do so love holy things.”

“I will pray for you until you die, if you promise me you will tell me the truth: will I find what I am looking for here?”

“Never.”

“Than it was all worth nothing.”

“I can make it all worth it.  Now be quiet, and know the Morning Star for who he is.”

They kissed like fire and oil, combustion embodied, and suddenly Filly found herself full of light, of burning, and she probed her tongue into his lush red lips and tasted damnation.  It was like the chocolate she had once had at a Christmas market in the Black Forest as a child, one she had stolen when her poor parents weren’t looking and the vendor was closing up for the night.  He smelled like cloves and oranges and ash.  Grasping hands, soft hands, hard talons, cupping her breasts, skimming her back, and soon they were falling into each other’s arms and his broken halo cut her brow like shrapnel and there was blood at her mouth from her forehead.  He lapped at the wound with a cat rough tongue, then eased her out of her night shift and was soon working her sex with that same forked tongue like a melody.  She came like rain as he used his fingers in a come hither motion then lapped at her pearl like a wild thing.

His mouth wet with her, he suckled at her breasts, and she fisted handfuls of his curling black hair into knots as she apexed beneath him.  Soon, his hot, eager member against her belly, wet with precum, and like swans flying north they joined in unholy communion, a sinuous movement bespeaking an ocean of sin.  He was hot inside her, pumping and pleasing and caressing and teasing.  She cried out as softly as she could so as not to wake the other sisters up.

“Filly, you are sweet,” he growled, taking his fangs and pressing them deep into her neck until he was drinking her lifeblood.  “So sweet I could… fall… yet again.”

Words escaped her as their black covenant wrote a whole nother gospel on what not to do on a holy day.  She heard the cross shatter as the drawer fell open and God turned away from her blaspheming.

Good riddance.

The Devil came inside her in searing spurts, and she felt it pulse upwards to her womb, blinding her belly with serpent seed.  He licked her wound shut with his saw paper tongue and then gave a sweet sigh, if the Devil could be said to ever be sweet.

“Come with me away from here, Filly.  I will teach you witchcraft, the oath of the Witchfather.  Let us travel Germania as Samiel and Brunhilde.  The Black Huntsman and his Valkyrie.  You are not a meek lamb of God.  No, you are a lioness.”

She stroked his back, where his wings of plush leather joined his shoulder blades.  “Yes, I think I would like that, Samiel.”

And so they left a train of ghosts behind them, bones rolled in their graves, and the Devil and Filly were ne’er to be seen in Rostock again (at least, not in daylight).

HAPPY HALLOWEEN AND HAPPY ANNIVERSARY TO ME, I DREW MICHAEL AND THEREFORE HAD TO WRITE EROTICA FOR SAM.  TIT FOR TAT.  ARCHDEMON ARCHANGEL LOSERS.  IT’S BEEN TWO YEARS BITCHES.  MAKE ME RICH ALREADY.

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Apollyon

More shitty erotica from college. Everybody wants to bang Satan!

I’ve entered a kind of paralysis; limbs frozen as shots of liquid terror race through my veins.  The darkness clamps down like a straitjacket, suffocating and restraining me, while a banshee wind rattles the rotten wood of the decrepit mansion.  Nana’s still snoring, deaf to the howling storm outside, and I know I am alone, the only conscious being for miles around.

He’s staring through the rain-dappled window with serpent eyes, crimson skin slick with water.  Ebony hair hangs in a tangled mat as he breathes black fog across my window. He smirks, tracing letters in the vaporous sheet:

“Come Out, Helice.”

My legs, moon pale, slide out from under the downy comforter against my will.  They lead me the cold stone floor, and like Frankenstein’s monster I stumble out of my room, blindly following the dark corridor of the hallway until I trip over the threshold of the foyer.  Crawling on all fours, my limbs lead me to the oak door. My hands clasp the lion-headed doorknob and twist it open. My body rises, clad in a thin white shift, and follows the stone path to the forest.

He whispers in my head, a chthonic language that courses through me like fire.  I feel him pull me deep into the woods. The clouds bathe me in their cold showers and if I could, I would grimace in pain, but my face is still as the grave- I cannot even blink the rain off my eyelashes.  My bare feet cry out in discomfort, ravaged by sticks and stones. There is no light to see by, yet I make my way through the forest like I have walked these woods for years. He lets me see as he must, with perfect clarity that can discern the slightest shadow.

It is a night for beasts and black Sabbaths, is it not, Creator?”  His voice comes from behind a gnarled chestnut tree as he steps out from behind the trunk.  He smiles and releases his hold on me, and with relief I slump against the chestnut, breath coming in gasps.

I refuse to answer him – there’s no way I will give the monster what he wants: attention. I shiver, the chill rain seeping into the marrow of my bones.  My surroundings fade to dark shadows and I stare at the black ground, refusing to meet his eyes.

His laugh is hollow as he creeps around the tree trunk, the ghastly red of his eyes illuminating our surroundings. “Creator, your games only serve to amuse me.  I can keep you here as long as I desire, Helice

I shudder at my name on his husky tongue.  I tuck my knees against my face and shut my eyes, willing myself to forget the cold and the monster.

All I want is company, a bedfellow to while away the lonely hours with.  Creator, Creator, I would never hurt you, Creator. Helice…” he hisses in a singsong voice. I feel his strange, seven-fingered hand resting on my shoulder blades, the other stroking my collarbone affectionately.

I scream in fury, grabbing his hands and bending his fingers back with all my strength.  With sickening cracks, they break, ripping his flesh. Hot ichor seeps out, hissing as it escapes his cuts.  It scalds my skin and I wince, burying my hands in my soaking nightgown. My eyes meet his face, twisted in wry amusement.  He is crouched over on all fours, wings erect to shield us from the rain. The monster licks the base of his mangled fingers.  The bones grind against each other, back into their proper places, while his flesh heals instantly, steaming as the bloody half-moons I inflicted vanish.

That was quite unkind, Creator.

The drops of his acid blood are burning my skin.  The focused points of pain send jolts through me. Moans of agony escape my lips, but I can’t run, cornered by the beast.

You’re in great pain,” he murmurs, taking my raw hands forcefully.  I scream at his terrible touch.

So fragile, so red.”

He laps up the blood like an animal, cat-rough tongue healing my palms.  I pray, for mercy, for help.

But there is only me, me and the monster, alone in the depths of the wood.

He licks my blood from thin, blackened lips.  His slit-pupils focus on me. I am pinned like a butterfly by his gaze.  “Creator, your blood is like providence,” he growls, long, prehensile tongue flicking out to taste the air.

“Why do you torment me?” I demand.  My voice shakes like the pulse of a dying man.  “When I found you in the woods, on the brink of death, I thought I was showing you mercy.  But you’ve turned on me. Tell me, what are you!”

“Your creation,” he hisses, fangs gleaming in the red glow of his eyes.  

“I’m not your Creator!” I sob, burying my head in my hands.  

I was a fool, to harbor this creature, to take pity on him.  In a matter of weeks he has grown thrice-fold, devouring the raw meat he forces me to bring him.  He has wheedled his way into my mind and manipulated me like a marionette, utilizing some unholy mind control to puppet me to his will.  I should never have let my curiosity keep him a secret, should have told my Nana immediately of the strange being I found in the woods. Batty as she is, perhaps she could have provided some protection.  

I remember Nana’s words from when I moved here a month ago: “These lands are cursed, Helice.  There is an old, dark corruption in these hills. Be wary when you walk the wooded paths.” A faraway look had settled in her rheumy eyes.  “Just as your grandfather and parents lost their lives, so may you if you aren’t careful.”

I had chalked up Nana’s warning to dementia, but now knew there was a dreadful truth to her words.  I stare that truth in its gaunt face, all razor cheekbones, sharp as barbed wire. He grins arcanely back at me.  

“You want to know where I come from, Creator?” the beast hisses.

“Yes,” I whisper.  

He edges close to me, so that I can feel his hot breath through the lace of my nightgown.  He toys with the neck of my shift.

“I am judgment, destroyer of worlds.  My skin is red with the blood of the slain.  I leveled Sodom and Gomorrah to dust, murdered the firstborn filth of Egypt, and I would have annihilated you, had you not shown kindness to me.”

“What?” I murmur, pale with fear.

“I made a deal with God, Creator,” he purrs.  “I saw corruption in this world and asked God to destroy it.  He refused my judgment. So I made a bet: if I discarded my angelic form and took on humanity’s sins, letting them twist me into something hideous, I wagered no one would show me mercy.  The Lord, ever faithful in humanity’s good, said that if a single human showed me kindness, this world would be preserved. I have traveled this planet for decades, taking on the forms of the hated: the homeless, degenerates, enemy combatants in need of mercy.  All humanity has treated me cruelly… all but you.”

“Me?” I ask, disbelieving.

“Yes.  You were the last test – I assumed my most monstrous form with you, expecting rejection, but instead, you showed me mercy.  Though I took the shape of your nightmares, you found it in your heart to help me. God was proven right, and my judgment proved wrong.  Because of you, the world was preserved.” He leans in, bat-like wings covering me. I gulp down air at his pinions’ leathery touch. “Now tell me, Creator, has your suffering been worth it?”

I shiver uncontrollably.  “Judging angel? You seem more demon than seraph.”

His eyes spark, and he examines his seven taloned fingers.  A bestial laugh comes from him. “I suppose I am demonic, in this form…”  He cradles my head in his hands. I choke back sobs, recoiling from his touch.  “Shh, Creator.  Don’t cry. I have brought you pain.”  He traces my collarbone, teasing the shift off my shoulders.  I am rooted to my spot, fearful of what he will do. “But I can bring you pleasure…”

My eyes widen like dinner plates.  “No…” I whisper.  “I don’t want that!”

He smiles sadly.  “Poor Creator. Alone since the death of your parents.  Is it any wonder you helped me?…” He wipes the rain from my brow.  “You recognized your brokenness in me. Saw the weight of your pain reflected in the monstrosity I am.”

My lip quivers.  “It hurts,” I say, voice raw, “their absence.  I dream of the accident every night, and I wake up with bruises on my soul.  The pain and guilt: it’s made me a monster myself.” I shake, mind battered. My brain flashes back to my parents’ screams.  “That’s why I couldn’t hurt you,” I cry, “no matter how hideous you are – because you were like me. Abandoned. Alone.” I sob into my arms, snot dripping from my nose.  

The monster embraces me, and I lean against his chest, thick with alien muscle.  He soothes me, running his hands through the wet locks of my hair. I bawl, ragged cries sapping my lungs of strength.  I feel light-headed, terrified to be in his grasp, but search for succor nonetheless.

“All I have wanted for days was to be this close to you,” he says, voice rough.  “To fix you, Creator, as you have fixed me. I was tired, so tired, of this wretched world.  But you showed me kindness, created me anew. Because of you, my faith has been restored.”

“What do you mean?” I breathe.

“That faith is an awful thing to lose.  You are sweet, and deserve sweetness in return.  Let me give it to you.”

“You can’t give me anything.”

Can’t I?”  He eases me up his leg so I am straddling him.  The fabric of my nightgown rides up above my waist.  Enfolded in his wings, I clutch at his shoulders, surprised.

“You mean…?” I exhale.  

He dwarfs me.  The idea is beyond preposterous.  And yet…

His blackened lips meet mine, and they burn hot like infernos.  Careful not to cut my mouth on his fangs, he sucks at my lower lip, then works his way down to my neck.  I gasp, and he groans against my skin – a low, wild sound that exhilarates me.

Hungry, he thrusts me down on his lap, grinding against me.  I am made painfully aware of his ridged, turgid cock as it rubs against my groin.  My clit aches as the friction builds, and I feel myself grow wet.

His hands knead my back muscles, as if reaching inside my ribcage for my heart.  The monster’s lips make quick work of me, fluttering over my skin, sucking and nipping as they trail down my collarbone to my breasts.  His breath grows heavy, and he tears my nightdress open. The monster teases the peak of my breast, flicking his tongue over my nipple, then kisses it hard, hands buried in my hair.  

“Oh god…” I say, clutching at the back of his head.

He groans again, hot breath raising gooseflesh on my neck.  Spreading me open below, his talons retract like cat’s claws, and he reaches deep inside me, thick fingers filling my core.  He slides them in and out. I moan, running my hands over the place where wings jut from his back. His red tail curls around my thighs, squeezing hard, and its forked end skims my lips, begging entry.  I suck at the hot tip, and he groans, burying his face in my breasts.

“Yes…” he hisses, teasing my breast’s peak.  He thrusts the head of his tail into my mouth, and my tongue curls around it like candy.  

He plays with my clit, taunting me, then takes his tail from my lips.  It shines wet in the glow of his eyes. Gently, he lays me down, and I rest against the leathery softness of his wings.  He arches over me like an omen, all muscle and sharp lines, and pins my hands behind me. Taking the thick tip of his tail, he slides it in between the folds of my pink wetness, filling me.  It darts in and out, the base of the tail’s head rubbing against my sensitive nub. I shiver beneath him, pleasure building in my solar plexus, and curl my hands around his wrists.

“More…” I moan.

He grins like a shark. Releasing my hands, he descends to pleasure me, prehensile tongue flicking over my clit like a serpent’s kiss.  I writhe beneath his working, hands buried in his hair, and he laps at my wetness like a starved man. His tongue spears me, and I am driven to the edge of orgasm.

“I want to take you,” he growls, voice rough.

“Yes,” I breathe, glancing down at his thick, alien cock.  Fear and exhilaration form a heady mixture in my core. Gently, he aligns himself with my slit, and his hot member penetrates me with agonizing slowness.  My legs curl up above his shoulders as he thrusts, careful not to hurt me with his incredible size. I stretch to accommodate him.

“Faster,” I beg.

“Are you sure?” he exhales.  “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Yes,” I plead.  

He finds an inhumanly fast pace, and I grind against him, derriere slapping against his muscled thighs, riding waves of pleasure.

“Oh… oh!”  I moan.  It is exquisite, but my ass aches to be filled.  

As if sensing my need, he teases my perineum with the tip of his tail, lubricating himself in my juices, pounding into me all the while.  Then, tentative, he massages the rosebud of my anus with his tail’s head.

His eyes question me.  I nod yes, sinking into the orgasm that comes as he teases my anus open and thrusts his tail inside.  Doubly penetrated, I arch my back in pleasure, ecstatic in this strange angel’s arms.

Groaning, he flips me over so I am straddling him.  I ride him with abandon, breasts heaving. Our coupling stretches out like shards of white in a snow globe, endless, suspended in joy.  He weaves in and out of me like the tide, red flesh hot with wanting.

When he comes, his seed fills me, burning like a brand.  It courses down my legs in thick streams. He pulls me to him, groaning my name: “Helice,” he breathes, voice raw.  

Spent, he cradles me in arms like sin.  I breathe in the petrichor of the rain-spiced air.  I turn to my unexpected lover. He smells like musk and wildfires.  His irises thrum like the heart of a flame.

“That was… something,” I exhale, overwhelmed by lingering sensations.

He smiles softly, cupping my face.  His lips brush mine, and he kisses me without rush.

“You should rest,” he whispers.  

I yawn.  “But your name…”

“Yes?”

“I don’t even know your name…”

He chuckles.  “In Heaven, names are unimportant.  Sleep, sweet angel,” he coaxes.

The heat from his body warms me, and I fall into the black pool of slumber, not giving a thought to the morrow.

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The Rain King

Written at 17 for Sam, going through the high school blog archives and found this little fairytale.  Inspired loosely by the Counting Crows song based on the book.  Remember the old blog, anybody, what was it, 2011?  Anyways, August and Everything After is my favorite album of all time, and Rain King is my favorite song from childhood.  It’s little things, like the rain, that speak of love and something more than this mortal coil.

Once upon a time there was a wretched beast that dwelled on the edge of the world. He spent his days tending to his beloved rose gardens, the laborious work and constant pricks of thorn helping distract him from his desolation. He took his meals alone, dined with darkness and rose with the moon. The food was bland and the palace lights always dim, his fortress flooded with eternal tears.

There was a girl for which the rains came. Thunder was her confidant, lightning her friend. Her hair was levin yellow and eyes an ozone blue.

The beast was beautiful, a wicked beauty born of torment and eternal wanting. Madness shone like jewels in his hollow eyes.

The girl sought the vessel of the storm. She sought he who sent the rains.  For she, foolish and wild, had fallen in love with the tempest.

So she set out with three pairs of iron shoes, the last breath of a dead man, and a bag that carried the wind. She traveled until the soles of her last shoes wore through, to the land of the setting sun. She had reached the West, where dead men dwell. She released the last breath of the departed soul and gripped it tightly as it flew to its owner.  It carried her to the edge of the horizon, to the land where he dwelt, and she held on til she could hold no more.

Then, she fell.  She opened her bag of wind, and it bore her aloft, tearing at her dress and teasing her skin.  It comforted her fall, and she landed in the grassy field as it it were a downy quilt.  The wind departed, her feet were bare, and for once, she was truly alone.

It was bitterly cold.  Frost iced the dead land, and her skin turned numb and blue.  She wandered aimlessly through the land of the setting sun, until the light departed and darkness cloaked the earth.  She ached with hunger, stung with cold.  And then, the last, evanescent breath of wind carried to her the most beautiful scent in the world.  She stumbled blindly through the dark, searching for its origin.

The beast lingered at the castle wall.  Something told him to wait.  He stalked towards the gate, watching thunder rumble across the skies.  He longed for one clear day, when the blue light of heaven would shine on his land.  But his heart, ragged, would never allow such a thing.

Until she came.

For once, in the land of Night, there was dawn.  It burst blindingly across his vision, and brought the old beast to his knees.  He trembled, kissing the earth and crying with the rain.

Are you the man that brings the storms?” she asked, clinging to the castle gate, almost blown away by the raging gale.

He struggled to his feet.  ”Yes,” he said roughly.  ”What would you have of me?”

Your heart.”

I have none.”

Than I shall be it.  Let me in, Rain King.”

He did.  In a clap of thunder, the old rusted bolts of the gate disintegrated, and she stepped past the threshold, into the heart of the storm.

It is beautiful here,” she murmured, plucking a white rose, the color of rain.

It is yours.”

 Make love?  No-

Let us make rain

Help me bring life

to this barren plain

With your love, rose-

I see past the thorns

And rise to the sun

Above the storms.

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The Bone Zone

There’s a haunting in the graveyard, where bats flock to higher ground when the dam flows over and coffins float to the surface.  I can smell the rot on my tongue and see the decaying rose petals adrift in this land spill of toxic waste and wonderlands.  I take a coffin, kick out the corpse, and row with a femur to your mausoleum as I navigate delta waters to the hell mouth.  Your edifice, Crypt Keeper, is tainted with ivy and is the only thing left above surface in this lake of the dead, a stone angel spreading her acid rain-washed wings to the glory of some decrepit heaven.  There is a black mist fine and pungent, fresh from the kill and bloated with pussy gases.  The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out.  The ones that crawl out are fat and stout, and they are feasting on the engorged limbs that have detached from their bodies, and there is a rat king, triple tails entwined, nibbling the corpse of some lawyer dressed up in his Sunday best, only it’s his Sunday worst, because he is filthy with the diseases of waste and ruin, slandered by Father Time, and honey, death is hell on the body.  Your loved ones will lose their teeth, grow out their hair, yellow their nails, mummify or dissolve, but when the waters come to take us home, we all end up in the sea.  That’s the truth of these matters – we are mostly water, and to liquid and stardust we return.  So I’m rowing my coffin through the remnants of your Grim Reaper’s harvest, all to find you, sweet cadaver.  Death smells like old garbage and sulfur and roadkill.  But sometimes, he smells like roses.  The crypt is tall and Roman styled, with the gloriana angel dolorosa, tears in grime on her eyes, and I tie my coffin to the angel with a bit of floating cloth, and scale the mausoleum.  Inside is an ossuary – the bone zone.  Huh, punny, that.  Inside you lay resplendent amidst bejeweled saint skeletons and artifacts of another time – holy relics, a pinky from St. Catherine, a liver from St. Pancras, oh, don’t forget that lock of hair from St. Teresa, my favorite.

Bones are sharp, they can cut, but words are just as much like razors, and I’m praying for a beastly tongue, an empty gun.  Death looks like someone you love, don’t you know?  He can mask himself in darkness and equally in light, in the wolves and crows and snakes, but now he is redeemer, savior, my unholy temple.  I climb inside his coffin and we entwine, and the black stretches out like a womb, and the silence of the deep is all-knowing.  Death, omniscient.  Death, omnipotent.  Death, omnipresent.

There is not much difference between Death and God, and many of us worship false idols, but the truth is, is that endings are painful, and the dearly departed haunt us.  But what to be haunted by Death himself?  Thorns and broken glass to puncture your fingers and feet, stanzas of poetry and prose that are like caged madrigal nightingales in your brain, and you crack your head open on a cliff to see the blood diamonds he planted inside you.

I am one with Death, we are Death and the Maiden, and as he raises his scythe, I know my tithe is the dearest thing to me: the lie of separation.

That I am anything more than Death.

For to write is to make love to the self, after all, and morbid curiosities become terminal in time.

So I kiss myself, and kill myself, and my corpse joins a million other lost girls.

Lost girls that dreamed they were part of some great narrative, when really, this is the world of ghosts, and it is only in dreams we are alive.

Cursed As The Beasts In The Fields We

Blood streaks his back, wings in tatters. He lies spread-eagle on the sand, at the lip of a gravelly cliff. Oh brother- you’ve turned on me. I drive my heel into his face, crushing it to the ground. He hisses, laughing madly under cracked ribs. All my fury broils over- my brother has become a Beast.

“Do you feel nothing!” I roar. “No remorse? Nothing at all!” I cry as I kill him. The last bits of his immortality drain from his once blue eyes. I hurt him because I love him, just as he has tore my heart a thousand times over. My brother, executioner of our kind. My brother, the traitor.

Perhaps his betrayal has not yet passed. Perhaps he is still innocent, but time is a funny thing: I have stood at the beginning and end of creation: Alpha and Omega are my blood. We are the twin serpents that circle each other, spiraling into eternity. Time has no meaning, to one such as me.

I know him, as Lilith does not. I have seen him, as Eve has not. I know what his sin will bring. The fields of damned stretch out before my eyes. My slain men rot. A legion of shadow cold as Dumah desecrates my home. He has brought death into the world.

A hole rots where his heart once shone. Nacash, the Shining One, has cast his aside raiment. Even I do not understand his blind sacrifice.

A girl stands beside him, centuries down the line. She witnesses his humiliation. “Why?” she cries. The man she sees is broken, and the one she stands by, mad. What broke you?, whispers her heart.

Why indeed. Why.

My brother, the howling void. I see what he becomes. His eyes are black pits now. The War has wasted him. Razor-thin, obscenely pale, he whispers into her ear:

“You lose yourself to the madness, and the pain wraps around you like a mother as you become one with the Abyss.”

I kick him over the edge, then spit on his disgusting form. I tremble. I want to die.

“I fell for Eternity,” he says, voice cold like the winter wind. Does he speak to her, or me?

My brother wakes in the Pit. He howls against his bondage. He tears the Abyss from around him and burrows in like a freezing wretch. Lucifer steps out of the shadow, watching coolly. Waiting. The North Star has followed the Morning.

Samael’s eyes open. They are red like spilled blood. I cannot stand that sight- I howl to my wretched God, I tear out my eyes like Azazel. They return like Prometheus’ liver. I, witness to Creation, cannot even be spared the sight of his damnation.

You ask me why I do not smile. Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani. Answer me, my God. You have been silent far too long.

She reaches for Samael, through the bonds of time. Lucifer sees the girl. His melancholy lifts- another pawn to play.

Death burns her flesh like acid. She screams into the darkness: Release him, oh dear God. God that never answers. God that doesn’t exist. He hath forsaken me. I must bear his likeness. I must bear the blame. Puppets of the Architect, in his endless shadow game.

The angels turn to me. They weep at their betrayal, for the war they did not want. Am I nailed to a cross? I do not know. We both are. Samael on Catharine’s wheel, nailed to turning time.

Do not comfort me. I bear this cross alone.

Forbidden

Lucifer is lost, they say, he wandered astray at the fork between the Milky Way and the Perseid’s, hitched a ride on a comet with his manifold silver white wings and landed in darkness, far from the light of the furthest star.  His halo of golden hair glowed like a jellyfish in the depths of deep space, bioluminescent divinity oozing out of flaming keratin like a song heard by no one, for in the outer rim, there is no sound.

Just silence.

Lucifer’s compass broke – don’t you know men that are birds and birds that are men have magnetic bits in their skull like geese and migrate always North?  The Fall scrambled the pieces of lodestone etched in Lucifer’s skull and now, he wanders the wastes that have become Pandemonium over time, fractals of fallen angels finding a lightless abode in the void and populating it with lost dreams.

They say if Lucifer could fix the broken map of his mind, he would come roaring back into Heaven and accuse Michael.  He would lay every mishap caused by  the Angel of the Lord at the Prince of Heaven’s feet and throw vitriolic acid that would turn leaden pinions to gold, coal to diamonds, and rain to splinters of ice.

Lucifer would sob into Michael’s arms, ranting and raving, clutching at the broken ribs of his damnation like a madman as they poked through his papery skin and say, “Brother, look what I have become, this wasted thing.  Why did you let me go?  Why did you cast me out?  We could have reigned together.”

And Michael would run his scarred fingers through the cornsilk of his older twin’s hair and warmed his Kelvin zero demon with the mercy of God.  “Because, brother, I had to let you know God, and the only way you seem capable of comprehending the love of the Lord is by shunning it, running from the very thing that gave you life, and then mourning the loss of Someone that would welcome you back into His arms without a word.  You were the one who cast us out, Morning Star.”

And Lucifer would bite his lip, and he and Michael would share a bitter kiss, like day old coffee grounds and the rind of an unripe pear, and that would be the end and beginning of Lucifer’s questions.

Silence.

 

The Pianoman

His tapered fingers danced across the keys, coaxing a haunting melody from the dusky piano.  I lingered, tucked away into the shadowed corner of the chapel.  Stained glass windows let crisp autumn air pour in.

He did not see me.  Not now, lost in his private reverie, giving all of himself to his music.  I leaned into the stone wall, letting my heavy eyes draw close.  I soaked in the soaring notes, their delicate strains tantalizing.

I could listen to him for eternity.  I did not need to touch him.  Not even see him.  His image could float across my mind, borne by the tides of his beautiful tune.

Self-conscious, I smoothed the pleats of my white dress, ran my fingers through my hair.  I felt unworthy of the music’s majesty, undeserving of its presence-

The music stopped.  I glanced up, startled, to see him peering back at me.

He looked at me with smooth glass eyes.  A soft smile illuminated his face as he twisted his neck, peering over his shoulder.  His eyes were a rheumy blue, almost as if he were blind.

“I wasn’t expecting company,” he said quietly, voice like dark, sweet water.

I blushed.  “I didn’t mean to stay,” I apologized.  “But I heard you from outside, and I couldn’t resist.  You play so beautifully.”

He laughed in a small manner, like the fluttering of a moth’s wing.  “I didn’t expect company.  I never said I didn’t enjoy it.”  He turned, drawing a sweet tune from the keys.  “Tell me what you like.  Songs of love?  Of mourning?  I can play them all.”

“Of dreams,” I said quickly, without thinking. “I like songs of dreaming.  Songs of impossible things.”

He looked at me wryly, folding his hands in his lap.  They were covered in white calfskin gloves.  “Dreams?  That’s something I rarely play.”  He glanced at the piano contemplatively.  “I oft times wonder if I’ve forgotten how to dream.  Tell me.  Can you teach me?”

“To dream?” I asked, taken aback.  I rose from the hollow in the wall, walking slowly to the pew behind him.  He was like an angel cut from stone.

“Yes,” he said, voice tinged with longing.  He gazed out the window at a slice of blue sky.

“Well, I don’t know if I can do that,” I said, hesitant.  “You just close your eyes-“

“Show me.” he whispered, gazing intently at me.  “I want to see exactly what you do.”

“Here, now?” I asked.  His eyes bore into my soul.

“Yes,” he said quietly, letting his finger drift to the piano.  He caressed a single key.  It echoed through the church like the last breath of a dead man.

“Well, like I said, you close your eyes-” I did so, breaking his gaze.  Relief flooded me, for a reason beyond my ken.  I sank back into the pew.  “And then, after you drift off to sleep, you dream.  

It’s as simple as that.”

“Is it?” he asked, voice ripe with challenge.  My skin pricked at his tone.  I shivered unfathomably.

“Yes,” I whispered, beginning to doubt my words.

A wind picked up, kissing my skin.  He gave a small half-smile.  

“Then I will play your dreams.”  

It was as if heaven bled into the room.  The music stirred my heart with warmth; I wanted to lose myself within it.  I couldn’t bear to open my lids.

I gasped, startled, as hands enveloped mine.  They guided me from the pew with quiet forcefulness, cupping my palms as if their owner meant to lead me in a dance.  The piano played, growing malicious in its beat.  The keys, tormented, wailed ever so beautifully.

I shivered.  These dreams were not my own.

“You do not open your eyes?” he asked, voice rich like the light of the moon.

I shook my head, trembling.  “No.  It would ruin the dream.”

He led me in a serpentine dance, my feet guided by a will not my own.  I felt like a satellite, revolving ever so gracefully.

“What if I told you,” he whispered, breath hot on my neck, “that all the world was asleep?”

My fingers were numb with cold.  “Then I would laugh, and I’d call you a fool.”

“What if I said,” he continued, voice almost urgent, “that you are about to be shaken violently awake?”

I laughed, nervous.  “And what?  Wake up in this world again?”

“No.  That you will wake up, with me.”

“But neither of us is asleep.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

He laughed softly.  “For whom, may I ask, do I play?”

“Me,” I said.  My voice faltered.  Dread slowed my step.  

“Yet here I stand, dancing with you.”

I gasped, face paling.  A stone lodged in my throat.  He covered my eyes with soft hands.  “I know you want to open your eyes.  But to do so would be horrible indeed.”

“Why?” I demanded, horrified.

“Because then,” he whispered, lips skimming my temple, “I could not dream you awake.  And dreams are a terrible thing to lose.”

“This isn’t a dream.”  I insisted, voice quaking.  “I’m flesh and blood!”

“You’d think, wouldn’t you?” he sighed.  The piano fell silent, and the void of that emptiness was icier than death.  A cold wind blew through the window, crowning us with frost.  His arms threaded

around me.  “Any moment, I will shatter this dream.  And you, dream-girl, will go with me.”

The stained glass cracked.  Suddenly faint, I collapsed against him.  My senses swam as he gathered me into his arms.  “I remember when I was woken,” he murmured.  “You have nothing to fear.”  Perhaps he looked down at me sorrowfully.  “It’s as easy as falling asleep.”

The piano began to play.

“We speak in music,” he murmured, carrying me out into the unforgiving snow. “We speak in music, where I’m from.”

The door slammed shut behind us.

All faded to black.

Draculina

Crooked teeth, or maybe they’re just my busted fangs honey, sinking into the meat of my back to make me your little Draculina.  I’m the demon in your mind, the devil at your ear, wolf mother at your door and poison cobra curled around your wrist.  I lick your pressure points, I devour you in one sitting, and as my poison sinks into you, you wonder.

Will her tortures ever end?  Will she keep flirting with my blade, courting my punches, crawling broken footed to my arms and crying me a river of joy?  Forget about wounding me.  She is always crumbling around me, like a stone fence bent by age, rocks scoured by wind, salt licked clean bare by deer.  She is the eidolon cleft from my ribs, but really, she is my own heart, weeping aorta the color of black lichen.  You know, the kind that grows on cliffs in the farthest reaches of Hell and feeds on blood, or is it wine, or is it blood?  Down here getting drunk off your wives is in fashion – a spritz of lung, a nibble of the ear, a bit off the waist, all to make you thinner, love.

I only eat you because I believe I can save you.

Whatever happened to Wonderland?
And where’d Alice go? Oh.
I took a night train with knife in hand,
And cut out to the next show
Back in her living hell.
I wish to dwell, I long to be,
In the blood and the guts
With the birds of prey and the stinging of bees and bullets maybe.
Leaving heaven behind for good this time, the angels can keep it.
I’ve got a demon in mind and she’s standing behind my dark secret.
Draculina.

Golden Spoon Girls

She is born into radiance, she is born into splendor, with a golden spoon in her rosy mouth.  All of Heaven holds its breath when she inhales, and her first exhalation outside the womb blows out the fires of Hell, leaving smoldering coals of impossibility and bittersweet dreams on infernal tongues.

She grows as girls do, and the angels and demons appear in the quiet hours, in the blank spaces, liminal beings of shadow and starlight that guide her above cherubim backs to the outer rims of the cosmos.  Girls with golden spoons taste moon dust like silver jelly.  Girls with golden spoons scoop out the eyeballs of Mother Nature and use them as mobiles in their cribs.  Girls with golden spoons, why, their tears are rainbows, and their fits are storms that become ravenous hurricanes.

Girls with golden spoons are blessed, but they are also cursed, for spirits demand much, and a spoon of bronze or a spoon of silver is just paean versus privilege.  But golden spoons are from the heart of the sun, they flourish in a cosmic dance reflecting twirling neutrinos and colliding atoms.  Golden spoons are nuclear, ticking time bombs, and they coat girl’s throats in rose petals until they drown in flowers.

She is all fire and water, all ice and flame, and to know her is to sashimi her lungs and sample them on a diamond platter.  To drink her blood is to taste red champagne with hemoglobin bubbles – the fruit of strawberries etched in buttery resonance.  Oh, how hell rides, oh, how heaven flies, oh, how golden spoon girls breathe like the cadence of falling rain and plie in tulle and satin.

They dance with golden spoons abreast falcon arms, and their legs are skyscrapers, and those golden girls are as dangerous as they are pure, as fragile as they are steel.

Golden spoon girls will make you or break you, and to love them is the Ballad of Marie Curie.

Carbon to gold in their goddess arms.