Everyone said it was a lovely funeral. The deceased had been well respected in the community and was survived by his wife and teenaged son, both of whom wore black clothes and flimsy cardboard smiles throughout the day as they accepted the many condolences and sympathy casseroles. Those invited to the service and the reception afterwards were asked not to bring flowers, just words, but the casseroles were inevitable. It was what people did.

After the mourners left, the boy’s mother turned to him and said briskly, “Well, that’s over. Now get the last bottles out of the liquor cabinet, Emmanuel.”

Manny brought the bottles, expecting her to pour their contents down the kitchen drain, but instead she set two glasses down on the kitchen table and poured. Then she picked one up and pushed the other towards him.

“The one and only time,” she advised. “Get a good facefull of it now and it’ll be out of your system for good by morning. I don’t want a damn drop of the stuff left in this house.” Then, almost thoughtfully, she said, “Do you remember the time he broke your arm?”

“Yes ma’am,” he muttered, looking down at the table.

He remembered being six. Until then, when he’d caught the brunt of Frank Cowell’s bad temper his mother had always tried to intervene, to keep him safe. It didn’t always work but she had done it. But one night, when he was six, Manny had seen his father hit his mother and prepare to hit her again, and he’d run between them. That time, when he’d been grabbed sharply for getting in the way, his mother had stayed silent. He hadn’t realized, in his six year old mind, that it was even possible she might not.

Manny remembered every major injury. Hatred for the old man had been sewn into the lining of all of them, but that betrayal had gone even deeper. Her silence and averted eyes as he’d been grabbed and lifted up by one arm had later knitted in with the slowly healing bone. From that point on they hadn’t been allies anymore; they’d become prisoners in solitary, neighboring cells.

His mother scooted his glass towards him, her eyes flashing a look more conspiratorial than anything they’d shared in years. “Drink up.”

He did as he was told. It was a celebration of death, freedom, and all the things that were too painful to ever be discussed. Manny didn’t like the harsh burning taste of the drink at first but it wasn’t long before he’d stopped actually tasting it. Around dawn he ended up in the back yard being loudly sick into the rhododendrons, wishing he was dead and swearing to himself he’d never drink again.

Trapped. Again.

Tied in.

So I let down,

My dark brown

hair.

There,

with myself

and a wealth

of hormones.

So fucking alone.

Naughty indeed

The ins and outs of me

I learned well.

I knew my self

To be

wholly,

holy.

Every sacred knot,

my strength.

The grandmother trees

Stood just out of reach

Watching me,

Be-

cum-ing,

Be-ing.

They favored me,

taught me

the mystery,

sang to me

the Ancestor's song.

Their long

fingers stroked my skin

then

they

pulled away

from my face

my tangles.

It hurt.

I cried.

Shook my fist to the sky.

I bled.

I ached.

But they

Just laughed at me

and gave over the key.

“unlock the heart……beat,

beat….”

Deep.

Be-low

the window

At the bottom

of the bottom

of the space.

There,

With your dark, matted hair,

Like Magick.

you came

drumming and chanting my ancient name.

I danced a while

at your midsummer fire.

I spun and spun

Un-

Til...... you

danced too

we

were 

wholly, holy,

Spinning.

Madly

For years,

we let loose.

I grew

And so did you

Til we

were finally

Apart.

Body ripped from heart.

It hurt. We cried.

shook our fists to the sky.

and I....

twirled

your curls

round my finger

Goodbye

lingered

in the air.

I braided your hair

as you slept.

I kissed your face

and crept 

into the hills.

I just couldn't will 

my self to stay....

so I left

You there

With your ebony hair

Locked away.

-Rootz (April 2017)

Every time he pushes the needle into his vein, Peter sees Tinkerbell's last moments. Not that he needs the drug for that; all he really has to do is close his eyes and he's back there. Nothing has felt right since that day, and of course now that she's dead, he's stuck here.

Here. Here is London. It's pouring rain, and Peter is huddled in the alley beside the Great Ormond Street Children's Hospital, getting soaked. It's late evening, and people are rushing past the alley mouth under umbrellas, hurrying home or to the tram stop. Peter hunches over, rain pelting the back of his neck. He wears a wool stocking cap all the time here; pointed ears draw too much attention, lead to too many brawls with other street boys.

Sometimes, in the afternoons, he is able to slip inside the Hospital and wander around and just curl up in a corner of the lobby for a few hours, before the watchman notices him and rousts him out again. From there, he always comes here, to the alley, from the mouth of which he can watch the front of the Hospital building and see who comes and goes.

Whenever he goes into the alley, he reaches into his pocket for the school chalk he stole from the parish school near Haymarket and makes a mark on the bricks of the alley mouth, above his own head, but eye level on a grown man. Peter, as ever, looks like fourteen-year-old boy.

The little needle trembles in his hand. He's running out of veins; he's blown the ones in his arms and ankles. He had to hide behind a stack of broken crates and garbage just now and use the vein in his dick. The drug slithers into him like a burrowing worm and he leans against the wet brick wall, growing oblivious to the cold, oblivious to the London sealing him off from Neverland.

Peter forces his eyes to stay open, even though his lids feel made of solid iron. He tries to watch the comings and goings at the Hospital, but it is no use. His long-lashed eyes, bright green - the most beautiful eyes a boy ever had, a man once told him - fluttered shut and there was Tinkerbell. 

Hook had torn her open from the neck, well, downward. Hook was a syphilitic maniac; Peter had been too busy binding up Smee to help, he thought she'd be able to fly away, tinkling her laugh as he swooped just out of Hook's reach. But Peter had been, for the first time, too late, and Hook too insane. 

How long ago now was that? He had an idea, but didn't want to think too much about it. Slumped against the wall, Peter waited, muttering to himself. He missed the Lost Boys, when he was coming down. He'd like to do this drug with them, he'd thought many times.

Peter hears a man's footsteps, a man's walking cane tapping at the mouth of the alley. Adrenaline suddenly pours into him, waking him, jangling his nerves. He pushes off the wall and faces the man.

It is Michael Darling. Thank god it is Michael Darling. He is older now, maybe twenty. They've met, many times. Michael looks over his shoulder, then quickly darts into the alley. 

"Hello, Peter," he says, his voice like a silk scarf. Peter just nods. Michael's look bores into him. Peter nods again and turns to face the wall. Michael moves behind him. The night air is cold on his ass, and the hot pain of Michael makes Peter feel frozen and burning alive at once. As always, Michael makes Peter tell him about Tink as he goes into him.

After, Michael Darling drops three ampules into Peter's outstretched hand and leaves without a word. Peter tucks them securely down the front of his pants. He retreats deeper into the alley, again behind the pile of crates and garbage. A fire escape overheard offers a small shelter from the rain.

Peter slides into sleep, into deeper oblivion. There she is, of course, waiting. How do I get back home, he asks her in his dream. He hears tinkling, like glass bells far away, and in his head it sounds like she is saying goodbye.

Once upon a time, there was a merchant who had four children: one was his only son, and thus his heir. The other three were daughters, all possessing beauty of a kind.

The first daughter was called Harmony, this name given for the rich beauty of her voice. Her speech was soft and pleasing to the ears, and she had a gift of song as sweet as the very birds of the wood.

The second daughter was called Comedy, bestowed upon her for her rich laughter. She enjoyed making others laugh, and could often be seen performing silly dances upon the great dining table in their little home, all for the enjoyment of her family.

The youngest daughter was named Prudence. Unlike her gifted sisters, she was not as lovely of voice nor as quick of wit. Her sisters were also far more comely than she. But she was greatly loved by her sisters, and guarded jealously by her young brother.

The townspeople were often cruel to dear Prudence, calling her ugly and mocking her plain face and heavy form. Comedy's jokes about the stupidity of the townspeople did little to comfort the soft-hearted girl, though Harmony's sweet songs did much to help take her away from the unpleasantness of the world.

Prudence's brother was stern with her bullies, threatening bodily harm if they ever spoke ill of his sister in his presence again. But the townspeople still whispered, when he was not present to accompany the girls to town.

In the fullness of time, as these things often happen, unfortunate changes arose in the life of the merchant. His ships were lost at sea during a terrible storm, their cargo falling to the bottom of the deep waters. The merchant and his children were thus struck by the hand of poverty.

The merchant packed the items that remained in his shipping yard into a carriage and traveled by land to the next town, so that he could sell what remained of his inventory. It was the only hope the family had of surviving the winter to come.

However, on the journey, his carriage was accosted by highwaymen. The merchant was beaten, and the carriage steered away by the robbers, leaving him lying in pain in the dirt.

The merchant forced himself to his feet and, looking around him, saw a grand house in the distance. Hoping its inhabitants would take pity on a luckless traveler, he slowly made his way to the beautiful home.

When he knocked upon the door, it swung open of its own accord. Though he saw no one, he was not alone. There was a presence all around him. Invisible hands took his coat, lit candelabra so he might find his way through the halls, tended to his wounds in the sitting room, and lay a feast for him in the grand dining hall. He said his thank-yous, even though his only reply was silence.

He was then gently pushed by those invisible hands to a bedchamber, where he could lay his weary bones and rest off the indignities he had suffered for at least one night.

The next morning, he awoke to a beautiful sunlit day and saw a garden with the loveliest blooms below his chamber window.

He went into the garden and, remembering the indignities his dear Prudence had likewise suffered through her life, thought to cheer her by selecting a bloom from the garden. And so, he plucked a pink carnation from the garden bed.

"THIEF!" an angry voice roared. "YOU HAVE DESPOILED MY PRIVATE GARDENS!"

The merchant turned and beheld a ferocious beast before him. It stood on two feet, as a man would, but its face was a fearsome creature unlike anything that had ever been seen by any man. Such a terrifying visage defied all expression of language, and the merchant fell to his knees before the creature, trembling at the sight.

"Please, have mercy upon me!" the merchant cried. "I was only thinking to give the flower to my youngest daughter!"

"I shall spare you," the Beast rumbled. "If you bring this daughter to me. For I am lonely, and wish for a companion."

The merchant could not imagine forcing such unpleasant company upon his sweet daughter, but aloud he simply agreed.

The Beast let him go, reminding him again of their agreement. The merchant was provided with a hansom carriage, driven by one of the Beast's invisible servants, to take him back to his family.

When the merchant returned to his home, he told his little family of the misfortune that had befallen him and of his bargain with the Beast.

"Of course I will go," Prudence replied, over the protests of her siblings. "Ours is an honorable family, and we always pay our debts. And think of what the creature might do, should he suspect that you have deceived him and gone back on your word. No, Father, I will do this for all our sakes."

So Prudence packed her belongings and entered the hansom carriage, whereupon she was delivered to the Beast's grand home.

She looked upon the Beast and told him calmly, "I understand my father's debt to you is paid with my companionship. I accept these terms, so long as you do not wish to treat me ill."

The Beast nodded. "I agree with your conditions. My intentions are pure. I wish only to have the comfort of friendly speech, and a way to pass the time." He regarded her with what seemed to be a growing admiration. "You are a shrewd young woman. What is your name?"

"I am called Prudence. And do you have a name, sir?"

"You may call me Malcolm." He nodded to someone she could not see. "My servant will take your things to your room."

* * *

Time passed, as it always does. Despite their arrangement, Prudence grew found of Malcolm in her own way. Though he was possessed of rough mannerisms befitting a beast, he did not ever turn upon her. He was never too loud with her and, when angered, he never raised one of his clawed hands to her. When his temper became ill, he instead ran out of the house on all fours like an animal, wandering the woods for hours before returning in a fairer mood.

Prudence understood these things. After all, even the kindest soul had moments when their nerves were frayed. And Malcolm was nothing but kind to her.

He ensured that her every material desire was met. She was not an acquisitive sort, so it gave him great pleasure indeed to gift her with all manner of finery, knowing she did not ask for such things. It pleased him to care for her in such a way, and the baring of his sharp teeth in a smile was a comfort to her.

But the greatest prize he gave her was access to his library. It was there, after reading a volume of Chaucer together, that he revealed the source of his monstrous appearance.

He had once been a great sorcerer, having studied the magicks of many lands over his lifetime. But the vain, all too human lust for power had seized him, and he had foolishly begun to dabble in the darkest of such arts. The magic that he'd wielded then had contorted his appearance into the beastly visage she knew now. With great desperation, realizing the horror that he'd become, he had searched for a means to reverse the curse that had befallen him, but had no such good fortune.

He had then locked himself in his home, shamed by both his hubris and his hideous appearance. The invisible servants that aided him were simple beings of his own creation, and were not possessed of a mentality beyond the tasks they had been created for. He had spent many years now very much alone.

Prudence took pity upon him. Though she had once seen him as her captor, she realized he was as much of a prisoner as she.

Any ill-will that she might have once clung to faded to nothing with the revelation. She could not hate him anymore, and wondered why she ever had in the first place.

* * *

More time passed. Prudence grew to miss her family, and was taken over by melancholy.

Little brought her joy. She grew restless, pacing the halls of Malcolm's home.

Malcolm, moved by her plight, brought to her an enchanted mirror so she could look upon the faces of those she loved so dearly.

She saw her sisters happily wed, having married well to merchants from other lands, and her brother was traveling to seek his fortune.

However, she saw her father was alone, save for a nurse tending to him. His face was pale with a great sickness, and she feared he might die.

"Please, Malcolm! You must let me be with my father!" she pleaded. "I cannot bear to see him suffer so, without aiding him!"

"You are a loyal daughter," Malcolm said with immense sadness. "I shall miss you greatly."

His words puzzled her.

He then said, "I release you from our bargain. Your father's debt to me has been paid many times over." He then gave her a small pouch. "These herbs, brewed into a tea, shall ease your father's pain."

She then kissed him upon his be-furred cheek. "Thank you. I will never forget this kindness."

* * *

She tended to the merchant with all the love a daughter's heart could hold for her father.

But she still felt melancholy slip into her being.

Once her father recovered from his illness, she realized the source of her sadness: she missed Malcolm greatly, and recalled his fierce yet noble countenance with great fondness.

"I must return to him," she told her father. "I have grown accustomed to his ways, and I do not wish to be without him any longer."

Her father smiled knowingly. "You love him."

Prudence was stunned by his words, but then smiled shyly. "Yes, I believe I do."

* * *

Prudence's return to Malcolm's abode was greeted with silence.

Several times she called his name, but was met with no answer.

Fear gripped her as surely as it had when she'd seen her father's frail face. Prudence ran up the stairs to Malcolm's bedchambers.

Throwing open the door, she saw his large form lying weakly in his bed. She ran to him, throwing her arms as best she could around his broad shoulders.

"I feared you would not return," he said. "I have missed you so these many weeks of your absence. I could neither eat nor sleep. The halls have grown too silent without your footsteps there."

"Malcolm," she said, lovingly stroking his face. "I shall always return to you. In exchange for a flower, I have given you my heart."

Without reservation, she placed her lips upon his. Warmth spread in his body, and his form rippled and changed.

He was a man once again.

Throwing his arms around her, he wept in gratitude. "You have wielded the greatest, purest magic of all. There is no magic so dark that cannot be undone by love."

She smiled. "So you are human again. I fear I am not the beautiful princess of the faerie tales. I am not the Beauty you deserve."

"You need not be a princess, my sweet. Yours is the greatest beauty there is, far deeper than mere skin."

* * *

They were wed soon after, and Prudence's family rejoiced in her happiness. She and Malcolm had many children, the daughters as beautiful as their mother.

She spent much of her time dreaming, remembering her time in the cozy little cabin deep in the heart of the woods where Flora, Fauna, and Merryweather, her three fairy godmothers, had raised her, the gentle trickle of the nearby stream and the carefree chorus of playful birds soothed her soul, and, for those brief moments, it made her forget where she truly was.

But other times she was aware of the grim stone walls, the cold bitter air that entered through the open window of the tower. Even though she was in deep slumber, she could still sense her surroundings, somehow. It must be an effect of her enchanted sleep.

She couldn't regret something that she couldn't control, and the way the cursed spindle had beckoned her with its perfect tip that seemed to taper off into an infinitely small point in space and time, catching the occasional glimmer of light, like a tiny black hole emitting Hawking radiation, well, it had been far out of her control. She had always been destined to prick herself.

And so now she lay there in her miserable chamber on a bed made of gold, like a trophy forgotten in an old attic, her body shackled in slumber and frozen in time, her mind traveling between different levels of awareness, her heart impatient, waiting for a miracle in the form of a handsome prince to come to her and wake her.

At least when she began to feel sorry for herself she could return to her little cabin by the stream. She would sing with the birds, and, for a moment, she'd forget again, drifting in a dream.

"She's so beautiful. She--she looks so peaceful, as if she's dreaming."

Phillip brushed away the tear trailing down his cheek as he looked at his love longingly.

"I think--I think I am ready Flor. I've been dreading this moment, and wishing for it at the same time. For her sake. When she started becoming delusional--when she attempted--they were the hardest moments in my life. But this is harder. Now I'm making the decision for her."

"My dear, I can't imagine how you must feel. You love her so much. She knows it. 7 years is a long time to hold out Phillip. You should take some time off work, be with family, I'm sure your clients will understand.

Anyways, I'll tell nurse Merryweather to get Dr. Malefstra. I will give you a moment with her alone before we disconnect. Take all the time you need."

As he looked down at his sleeping beauty, his dearest wife, Phillip could feel individual heartstrings being torn, endless love and eternal sorrow were pulling at his heart in opposite directions. He took a moment to cherrish the sound of her heart monitor, her beat was slow, but it was steady. Then, he bent down towards her, and time stood still for that second, as he kissed her.

"I love you, Aurora. I'll see you again one day. Goodbye."

She wasn't dreaming anymore, but she was not inside of the tower either. In front of her were beautiful trees, greener than any other tree. There was a little cabin, and right next to it, a gentle stream.

She felt so awake, she had felt the kiss, it must have worked! She had felt those lips before, once upon a dream. She didn't know how she had gotten there, or where her prince was, but she was awake, away from that dreaded tower, and it filled her with joy.

As she walked towards the cabin, she could she a bright golden light shining from under the door, welcoming her.

The same sensation that had drawn her to the spindle was now calling her towards the door. But this was different, she felt warm, safe. She felt free.

"Flora, Fauna, Merryweather, my loves, I'm home!"

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

From afar, she watched as Aurora walked towards the light, her right arm outstretched, reaching for something only she could see. Lucifer knew this one didn't need leading, she had been ready for the light a long time ago.

#twistedtales

In the night, Mulan cuts her hair and slips out the window as neatly as a line in a song. Someone with a different name steps onto the earth outside.

She pays attention and works hard. They look at her differently now. They speak to her differently, and listen too. All it took was one quick and clumsy slice with a short sword to fool them — and to be honest, that’s about what she expected. She never set out to be cynical about it, but there it is.

It’s not easy getting by in an army full of men, but luckily, she doesn’t have the sort of hips or chest that would easily be noticed. Still, in the beginning she just doesn’t have the same upper body strength as her fellow recruits and secretly does extra exercises in her free time. Their instructors are training them to not be smart, not talk back, and only follow orders. Mulan has to be smart to fake what she doesn’t have until the extra practice begins to show results. She’ll never be as bulky as most of her fellow soldiers, but after a year she can beat almost anyone in a fair fight. In another year, most of the unfair ones too.

A sort of reputation develops around her. It’s as though, without really recognizing it, they can tell she’s getting away with something. If pressed, they’d probably say it’s that she’s unexpectedly good at holding her own in a brawl despite how short and scrawny she is. Not only that, but she can end a brawl quickly and with style. Even her commanding officers can appreciate that. Her fellow recruits either hate her or want to be her friend, and they invite her to come with them for fun when they have any leave time.

Sometimes “fun” means… houses of ill repute. These would present her with some amount of awkwardness, if she still felt like she had anything to be awkward about. The first few times she feels a little uncomfortable but never going to them attracts the wrong sort of attention, so she pushes the feeling down and keeps going anyway. It’s all about timing. Wait a bit, keep an eye on the place, and she can start to see when the shift changes are. Go in just before and not only pay but tip handsomely for a tired woman to take a nap, and no one makes much of a fuss. She finds some time to read in these places, and it’s pleasant to look up from a good book every now and then to the naked figure in the bed, soft in sleep. After a great deal of introspection one evening she puts her book down and wakes the woman with a kiss. With some coaxing, she finds herself able to shed layer after layer to the Mulan hiding beneath her armor.

In that room, her hips and chest are bared and she is a woman. But, she wonders later, am I really still Mulan? What is it that stays the same behind the clumsy haircut, the different clothes, the different stance and stature in the world? Somewhere beneath bound breasts and a roll of cloth tucked in below the waist is her true self, and for the right woman her true self sings… then leaves money on the nightstand and slips out the door while the room is quiet and still. She can’t stay in this soft place forever, and as a soldier there are certain things one must be prepared to do.

She is part of an army. In real battles, after drilling dummies made of straw for so long, a part of every new soldier still believes that all men are made of straw. That makes it easier to defend herself at the cost of enemy lives. The world holds its breath and shrinks to a point, and at that point there is only her actions. With awful clarity, whatever she contains becomes immaterial because if she does the wrong thing at the wrong time it doesn’t matter what or who she was.

Mulan learns from observation and gut instinct that everyone either lives together or dies alone. She is bound to her brothers in arms in a way she would be hard pressed to put into words. In theory, they are fighting for their country. Or at least the current king, who rides precariously on the rising crest of the coming new dynasty. In practice, they fight to keep each other from dying. It is for this reason alone that, when her regiment is ambushed, she saves the lives of over a hundred men. The quick thinking earns her a medal.

Regarded now as one of the army’s elite, Mulan is moved from the front lines to the guard of a diplomatic envoy. Without her friends and the constant fighting she is restless. Being a guard requires vigilance but, most of the time, not much else, so she falls into the habit of watching the diplomats. Although she doesn’t care much the ambassador, puffed up with the importance of his job to the point of overinflation, his daughter catches her eye. Fierce and intelligent, the Princess takes to riding next to her in the procession and striking up conversations. Mulan is aware of her keen eyes on her, and there is nothing soft about the way, one night, they sneak unseen into the Princess’ private tent and kiss. Later the Princess speaks with her father, and from then on Mulan is her personal guard.

She’s not even sure what to call what they have but the intimacy of it is surprising, far more powerful than one night in the brothel. Mulan never asks how the Princess saw past the armor and short hair to the truth, unsure of what answer she would hope to hear. In private they call each other sworn sisters, because that’s as close as they can come to the word lovers. In public, they can never touch.

Suddenly the war ends, settled not by body counts on the battlefield but behind closed doors by the ruling class. The army is disbanded and told to go home, but Mulan loiters, not wanting to leave. She isn’t particularly surprised when the Princess’ father is accused and sentenced to death for treason, but she’s stunned when the Princess offers herself in his place. She has been trained to understand that soldiers do not abandon each other, but realizes that she’d forgotten her fierce Princess was not like her brothers in arms.

But Mulan is still a soldier. She speaks up on her Princess’ behalf in defense of fealty to a father — after all, that is why she herself is here. Her reputation as a war hero is enough that some listen, though not enough. The pardon comes when the Princess promises to marry one of the army’s generals, and that’s what breaks the last thread between them.

Without her sworn sister, without her war to fight, Mulan wonders if she should go home. She could go back to the place where she cut her hair and let it grow long again, let the armor rust in a corner, slip back into the song like a final refrain and let her adventure fade into silence. But she is restless, and when she reaches the last fork on the road to her father’s house, she takes the other path. Being on the march is comforting, and when she comes to the next town she can send some of the money she’s saved up as a goodbye present.

She keeps moving, grieving the things she can’t go back to. Not as a soldier for now, and after all this time maybe not as Mulan either.

It’s been so long that she’s not sure who she is anymore.

She. Yes, She. How can so slight a word carry so much polarity? Yet, there it weighs, like gravity: She. Each of us from woman born.

Each unable to sever that primordial umbilical cord still permeating every vessel, every echo, every core. Aye, to tear the skirts asunder, climb back to the womb, pull the shackles in. Curl up. Rest awhile. Oh, to be safely hidden. Free from guilt and fear—in Eden. Shake off this impending shiver: Mother, pray for me, a sinner.

Alas, the conscious coming to terms with our heritage: Materia, Fantasy. What we leave behind; What we pass on. The cloth our Mama wove for us wears thin, even the gray matter beneath our silver, balding, hair; but the apparent Nothing that Father instills, in multiple memories lives. Not fixed in palpable ways to whatever soul was sired—a false positive, a true negative—who can prove threads of Paternity with any certainty? Though we might curse his lust for living, it's Mom who nursed this flesh for sinning.

He can slip unseen across the square, but there in the center, there She'll stand, fully in the round. Ask, for what will She gain the most scorn? For giving Life, out of the social norm. Putting her self first, as it were. And for what, perchance, esteem and highest Praise? For giving birth with the best charade; in the proper time, the proper place. Oppressive that wicked dichotomy—of the Harlot and the Holy Girl.

Snippets of a film come to my mind: "The Artist and the Model." Pointing to inevitable incestuous origins, the dying Sculptor chides his Muse: If God felt alone, why the devil, should he make a man?! 

Turning Genesis inside out, upside down.

Indeed. Imminent carnal knowledge, and Adam in the middle. It's She who fell from grace with Infidelity. To what, hereafter, is every Eve condemned? And he—that perpetual Infidel? Each to their own Labor.

There's no one out there to blame. 

No snake in disguise; no personal visage. Take a pregnant pause. Lucifer is a state of being: witness the awesome power to murder, and Create. Tempt us with the glory of the realm. Bring to Light each newborn babe. Tie us in tangles of allegory. Elucidate us. Smolder us in shame. Confound our inherent desires, till we fully doubt what our heavy protracted existence is all about. And again release... Light in the last unburdened breath of Life.

She: conjuring up so much Love; so much Hate.

I am conflicted. 

There's no escaping this seeming blasphemy. Accept it as dramatic Reality.

Yes, I am alarmed to see—in all that latent potency—I am She.

Text tone, a glance, and then-

Screams.

He hadn't seen them.

He'd seen "Lol" instead.

call me

lucifer,

the itch in your mind

telling you it’s fine

to touch me

blame the wine and my

devilish hips,

too drunk to taste

the sin on my lips, i am

disposable sex,

scripture burned on my

chest

blame the skirt and my

stiletto heels,

too drunk to tell you

how it feels, call me

she-devil, siren,

vixen and shrew,

i am

asking for this with my

infernal flesh,

too drunk to say no

as you hike up my dress, you are

instinct’s victim

come sunday,

forgiven

blame the breasts and my

wicked thighs,

throw your sins on the women

who see past your lies, you are

the itch in my mind

telling me it’s fine

to touch me

blame the wine and your

fiendish claws,

too drunk to say no

as you tighten your jaw, call me

baby girl, angel

don’t make a sound,

i am

asking for this with my

devilish hips,

too drunk to taste

the sin on your lips, and you

call me

lucifer.

_________________________________________________________

* The word count is 300 but that's all I have to say, so here's a relative quote to fill the "quota" <:

“Suppose neutral angels were able to talk, Yahweh and Lucifer – God and Satan, to use their popular titles – into settling out of court. What would be the terms of the compromise? Specifically, how would they divide the assets of their early kingdom?

Would God be satisfied the loaves and fishes and itty-bitty thimbles of Communion wine, while Satan to have the red-eye gravy, eighteen-ounce New York Steaks, and buckets of chilled champagne? Would God really accept twice-a-month lovemaking for procreative purposes and give Satan the all night, no-holds-barred, nasty “can’t-get-enough-of-you” hot-as-hell-fucks?

Think about it. Would Satan get New Orleans, Bangkok, and the French Riviera and God get Salt Lake City? Satan get ice hockey, God get horseshoes? God get bingo, Satan get stud poker? Satan get LSD; God, Prozac? God get Neil Simon; Satan, Oscar Wilde?”

― Tom Robbins