Queen of the Damned Part 4
The Archangel Council.
The current leaders of all of Heaven.
Stationed high within the floating metropolis that is Paradise, the capital district of Heaven, was the Archangel Citadel, the towering residence of Heaven’s eight archangels: the honorable Michael, Archangel of Justice; the wild Gabriel, Archangel of Strength; the traditional Raphael, Archangel of Virtue; the wise Metatron, Archangel of Valor; the stern Zadkiel, Archangel of Wisdom; the young Jophiel, Archangel of Unity; the compassionate Barachiel, Archangel of Hope; and the blind and beautiful Ariel, the Archangel of Peace.
Over a millennium, they were the highest ranking generals in the angelic armies during the long, disatreous Heaven-Hell War. Unity and honor was how they commanded. Their unification was enough for the celestial many called God to bestow leadership over their world during his extended leave. Tonight was time for another one of their evening meetings. All were present. Each gathered around in their seats. Each dressed formally in glimmering robes. Even Gabriel, or Gabi as her siblings called her, was dressed in a much elegant tuxedo than her usual jacket and jeans get up. As long as it wasn’t a dress. She always hated dresses.
“It is settled then,” Metatron said. “Zadkiel, Gabriel, and I will attend Elysium’s Festival of Illumination while Michael and Barachiel will meet with the delegates of Jannah. Are there any other matters to discuss?”
“I have one,” Mike spoke up. “I think it is time that we procede with developing new relations with the demons of Hell.”
Raph, his younger brother, groaned. “You’re gonna start this again.”
“I, for one, agree with Michael,” Barachiel then spoke. “If we really want to strengthen our relationship with the demons, we should start with opening communication with their king.”
“We may have to delay those communications,” Ariel said, her finger tapping her chin. “I’ve learned from a reliable source that Lucifer has fallen ill.”
Gabi chuckled. “Are you sure he’s not faking it?” she said. “He has a habit of doing that in the past.”
The Archangel of Peace turned her head to Gabi. “According to my source, this is no act. He is indeed ill.”
“Then we shall wait until his health as returned,” Zadkiel muttered.
“There is another we can speak to.”
Jophiel looked at her confused. “Who?” the younger angel spoke. “Legion?”
Ariel shook her head. “Legion is not the one in charge. Lucifer’s wife Carmen—if I remember her name correctly—is taking command as acting ruler of Hell, for the moment.”
Whispers were thrown around the council. “A mortal?” Raphael grimly scowled. “In command of demons?” the gears in his prosthetic fist crunched together. He was about to break off his arm rest.
Barachiel chuckled. “Well, these are strange times.” the other members of the council found his comment amusing, chuckling themselves.
“I say we take control of that ceasepole.” Raphael growled.
Zadkiel glared coldy. “We have no jurisdiction over the demons or the Inferno!” the Archangel of Wisdom corrected his fellow councilman. They knew it was true.
“And such an act would violate our treaty with them.” Jophiel added. That statement was true too. Another war with the demons was something neither party could afford. Not after the destruction their conflict had caused.
Worlds gone. Civilizations decimated. Scars unhealed. The Council dared not make any motion that would lead them back into war.
“Michael,” Metatron spoke this time. “You are more familiar with this mortal woman. Do you believe that she can handle this task on her own?”
Mike kept silent. He knew Carmen was a great woman, and an amazing parent and wife. But she has no experience in leading the demons. He never saw her in the Inferno, giving the demons any orders. That was always Lucifer’s duty. Carmen’s was to her home, family, and career. Now she was going to have to act as devil, standing in for her sick husband. The Archangel of Justice wondered if he should ascend into Earth or the Inferno, providing guidance for his sister-in-law, easing some of the stress that can come from leadership. But he remembered that she was not alone. Legion and Lilith were there. They’ll guide her. And Scrugs was there too, as an assistant to them guiding her.
“I say,” he finally answered. “that the only course of action we take is to have faith. Don’t let her mortality fool you. Carmen Gravely is a strong, capable woman who can handle any task. She’ll do was needs to be done for the demons.”
“Then perhaps with her,” Ariel then addressed. “she can help with opening communications with the demons.”
Everyone directed their gazes to Ariel. She had a smile that was a devious as a demon. “Do you have something in mind, Ariel?”
Ariel nodded. “Actually, I was just thinking that we are long over due in giving a formal congratulations to Lucifer and his wife on their marriage.”
#sinsofthefather #fiction #fantasy #comedy #horror #angels #heaven
Eski
No bloody sacrifice is enough to appease the terrible craving for blood demanded by this horror. Born of a thousand tortured soul’s tormented screams he is a very dark demon who sometimes takes on human form. The superstitious people of the eighteenth century called him a vampire but before that he was known as Eski. He was banished to Iceland by an exorcist in 1906 but has been known to reappear at various times and places throughout history.
It is said that he gets inside the heads of crazy people and makes them do horrible things. Some say it was he at the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, Charles Manson and his "family" killings, and more recently Sandy Hook Elementary School. The twentieth century appears to be the bloodiest century of them all. It would seem that Eski is alive and well. Hope you’re in sound mind and body tonight.
Should I Tell
Yes, I have secrets, but don't we all? Secrets from a past thought fogotten, to secrets only moments ago hidden.
I'm sure no one really wants to know what I don't tell openly, otherwise it wouldn't be a secret now, would it?
I know of no secret passageway so that's not a secret, and the only code I know is basic stuff to do online that's not much of a secret either.
Secret desire? Hmm. Maybe. But you wouldn't be interested. At least I don't think you would be interested. We all know the writing I do is a desire of mine, and that isn't a secret.
Secrets are like a good mystery book. Start from the beginning, work your way through until the surprise ending may very well be a twist you weren't expecting but are satisfied just the same.
So what one secret could I open up about and let everyone know?
Tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to think longer about this and get back to you another time.
Marshmallows
Marshmallows suck. There. I said it. Before you attack me hear me out. Let me set the scene. You're sitting outside on a chilly October night, surrounded by your closest friends, laughing and singing dumb campfire songs. Even though the music is loud, the comforting crackling of the fire is still heard and it reminds you that you are here. You are not spinning around alone and forgotten. You are here. In your best friend's backyard, with your other friends, with food, with music. For a split second, everything is okay. You don't think about how you failed your Chemistry test. You don't think about how your dad left. You don't think about how Katniss should have gotten with Gale. You don't feel crippled by life. You feel okay.
Until Emma brings out the marshmallows. Sure, some people like them. They're soft. Squishy. Kind of like boobs. But those little clouds of gelatin, corn starch, sugar and water are demons in disguise. They are impossible to roast properly. If you overcook them they shrivel and burn, just like your GPA. If you undercook them, they're hot and cold. Indecisive. Just like that girl you were gonna ask out. Marshmallows can act like they are perfect. All golden on the outside when really they are just sticky and gross on the inside, just like your life. On the outside you seem to have everything together when in reality you are just as confused and lost as everyone else. But, for the sake of those still clinging to the hope that marshmallows are good, lets just say you were able to correctly cook one. It's golden. Melty. Not too burnt, not too soft. Right in between.
Now try eating it. You can try this three different ways. The first, is just eating it right off the skewer. Good luck with that. You will burn your face off. In your haste to remove the smoldering skewer from your face you will burn your fingers. You will end up in the emergency room with second degree burns and when the nurse asks you what happened, you will lose all dignity and tell her you tried to eat a marshmallow.
The second, is waiting until the marshmallow has cooled down enough to touch and eating it with your hands. Bad plan. Very. Bad. Plan. Only three things can bring something together faster than a college student with a two hour deadline; Hate, the gel form of super glue and a half melted marshmallow. Got melted marshmallow between your fingers? Get used to living a cohesive life with your fingers cemented together, because friend, that's never coming off. It will get stuck in your hair. It will get stuck in your clothes. Accidentally touch someone? Congratulations! You and that poor person are now siamese twins. There is no escaping it. You will suffer through life with a preventable handicap. All because you tried to eat a marshmallow.
The third and final way one can try to enjoy a marshmallow is by making a smore. What could be better than a warm chocolate covered melted marshmallow squished between two golden graham crackers? Sanity. Have you ever tried to eat a smore? The chocolate never stays on the marshmallow. The graham crackers always break. You will burn fingers and your mouth. The chocolate will always be colder than the marshmallow. And those are just the trials of eating a smore, I'm not even going to mention how hard it is to make one. Twenty years later you are still living in denial. You still pretend to enjoy this process. You are trapped in a never ending saga, because you just had to eat a marshmallow.
So, Emma brings out the marshmallows. Everyone gets up and goes for the skewers. You sit alone, accompanied only by the cold air, distant laughter from friends and the fire. The red, blue and orange swirl together into flames and the comforting crackling has now turned into a mocking laugh. You are alone. Again. Marshmallows suck.
A cigarette in the evening
There are moments in life; snapshots. Small, insignificant moments that somehow feel as if they hold some overwhelming significance. Tiny pieces of time that will forever be branded in your mind with astounding clarity. This is one of those moments.
It was night time and his room was enveloped in darkness. There is something immensely palpable about the dark which creates an entirely different atmosphere; evoking completely different experiences, provoking thought and encouraging reflection.
He wasn’t exactly sober but he hadn’t touched a drink all night. Pressing, but not uncomfortable, silences stretched between the two of us. The thick, silent atmosphere of the night dissuading either of us from breaking its peace. He sits behind his desk in his favourite chair, swivelled just slightly in order to better see out of the solitary window. His silhouette was darker than the cloudy sky outside but I could still make out the tight ringlet curls atop his head that I loved and he hated. I could distinctly feel the cold emanating from the window from my seat atop his desk. I had my legs crossed, right over left, and a ghost of a smile on my face; recognizing this moment as something special.
He was not a smoker but he held a cigarette loosely between his two fingers and lips. Its red embers appearing startlingly bright in the dark room, unwittingly and inevitably drawing our attention to it. My eyes watched the glow of the cigarette unerringly, waiting for the bright flare as he casually raised it between his lips and took a drag. Watching the smoke curl from his mouth as he exhaled was satisfying in a way that few things are. Unique, perhaps, only to fire. The blue-grey smoke curled towards the ceiling, moving hypnotically and unpredictably, moved by an invisible force before dissipating and vanishing from my scrutiny.
He had his eyes closed, completely immersed in the blissful experience. I hated that he made smoking look so appealing. The clouds were lined with silver as a watery moon emerged slightly from behind them, bathing the room in an eerie silver light. Another drag of his cigarette, another flare, more hazy blue smoke slowly unfurling upwards. I watched as the cigarette was slowly consumed by the orange glow. A casual movement of his hand and a lazy flick of his thumb transfixed me. The silence continued to drag on. It was still a comfortable silence; all of our silences were. I was glad neither of us felt the need to fill the space between us with words. In a moment like this it would only have tainted the atmosphere.
We were content to remain immersed in our own thoughts. I do not know what he was thinking but I marvelled, yet again, about the intense awareness I had of this moment. It was a small snapshot in time; barely a glimpse, shared between two. It was a moment that could not and would not be forgotten. I did not want to forget this. Us. At that place, at that time.
I couldn’t forget his dorm room, enveloped in darkness or his relaxed figure lounging in a chair and lost in thought. I would always remember sitting on his desk with my legs crossed; refraining myself from tugging at that stray curl over his forehead. I wanted to memorise the lazy enjoyment he got smoking the cigarette, the smouldering red glow of the ember, its vivid flare, the blue-grey smoke curling slowly, unfurling towards the ceiling. It was a moment I truly wished would last forever and so I relished in the atmosphere, savouring every second and cherishing these special moments, just for me.
To Wait and Weep
Pearly drops of water were falling from gunmetal gray clouds on the day I found the old farmhouse. I was going to pass it by but its windows drew me in. Drops of water rolled down the glass to form a tiny pool on the pane. It looked as though the windows were weeping. For who or what I did not know. I only know how their sadness spoke to me. The siding on the roof was weathered. The middle porch step was broken. The torn cover of a “Play The Trumpet, Book 1” was caught in the lattice beneath the porch floor. A few shingles blown off the roof lay scattered on the ground. Whatever was left of a hand-painted sign was propped against the porch rail. The words, “Welcome”, “Music” and “Family” were legible. The rest were gone. The windows in the house wore no curtains, adding to the signs of abandonment. However, in spite of its state of unkemptness, the house retained an air of grace and gallantry.
How long had it been there, stuffed full of silence? It was void of voices and laughter. No longer did it contain echoes of quarrels and apologies, scuffles and scoldings. Nor could be heard the snoring of a farmer after a long day in a hayfield under a hot summer sun. The house was more empty than the vacated bird nest that rested in the branch of a nearby sapling maple tree.
The farmhouse stood alone. Still. Stoic. Waiting. For something. Maybe for its family to come back? One suspects it had known happier days. That it had once thrilled to the sound of a child practicing a trumpet. It’s possible the house had even welcomed the sour notes, for it knew that by struggling with strange off-key sounds, the child would learn how to coax sweet haunting music from the shiny instrument. Could it be that the house wanted once again to hear the family sing together? Or that it was listening for the mother’s soprano blend with the farmer’s bass and the children’s alto that had once filled its space with harmony? Maybe it was remembering how in the early evening, after chores were done, the voices of the family’s music drifted across the lawn. Perhaps it wanted to hear the clop of shoes and boots coming up the porch steps as people dropped in to listen or join in the singing.
And, oh yes, the children! Perhaps the house was waiting to hear them as they scrambled up the stairs. And the squeak of the fifth step from the landing, when on Christmas Eve, they crept down at midnight, hoping to see Santa Claus. Could it be anticipating the aroma of coffee perking on the wood stove? Maybe it was waiting to hear the scrape of the farmer’s chair on the linoleum when he pushed away from the breakfast table. It might be hoping he would hurry to the barn and call the cows in from the pasture to be milked.
Or perhap the house was just tired. Much like Mr. Sanders, the gentleman whose 99thh birthday I had helped celebrate last week. He was a resident of the nursing home that could be seen from the porch of the house. When I entered his room, he was gazing out the window. He wore his farmer’s striped bib overalls. The straps were loose around his thin shoulders. On his head was a worn billed hat, with the words, “Old farmers never die. They just go to seed.” I stood beside his wheelchair and strained to look through his window. I wanted to see what he saw. But the only thing that stood across the half-mile stretch of green grass was the old farmhouse.
I looked closely at him. Gone from his face were the lines of determination and strength that marks those who spent their lives wrestling with the wind, the sun and rain. One who understood, as only a farmer can, that sometimes you win and sometimes you lose. The weather might cooperate or it might not. The harvest would be plentiful or the cupboards would be bare. From the half-smile and soft chuckle that had punctuated our conversations in days past, I knew this farmer once carried optimism on his shoulders as easily as he could hoist his young son high above his head. It wasn’t always visible, but it was always there. For, without it, no farmer could survive.
On that day, however, as he gazed at the old house, I saw his face change from stubborn determination to resignation. It was as though he and the house were completing a pact they had made with each other. They were connected by a shared realization. Restoration for the two of them was no longer an option. They both knew it. They were too far gone. Their usefulness in this world had expired. The old man began to weep. Silently. He closed his eyes and whispered, “It is time.”
I left the nursing home and returned to the farmhouse. At the end of the driveway a beat-up metal mailbox on a weather-worn wooden post leaned slightly to the left. On it I saw faded letters. “S-A-N-D-E-R-S”. I looked again at the windows. Beads of water still stood on the glass. Something about them reminded me of what I had seen on the old man’s face. They too, were waiting. They too were weeping. Because it was time.
And in that moment I realized the old man and old house were waiting and weeping for each other.