The Fire of The Gods

We breathed thoughts into you. Oh, you crawled out of the swamp on your own. We gave you the spark to become… whatever you would. Then we watched, when we cared to, which wasn’t often.

When you finally became amusing, we breathed language. Words were the first forbidden fruit, and you gobbled them up, garbled them, split and spit them and wrestled your brains into growing larger, because you craved more words. Terrible drugs will do that, and ideas are the most potent of all. You burned with need for words and concepts. We drove you mad with them, and you became interesting.

The worst thing we ever gave you was the concept of Truth. It was an accident. A dalliance, a tryst, a flirtation with complex vagary you were never meant to remember. But you did, you blighters, and then you Named us.

Strange thing about you, which some of you realize and the rest try desperately hard not to: from simple clan group to vast civilizations, the Names you choose for us are all the same. Certainly, there are nuances, and our appearance changes depending on what you need us for, but we are always War and Destruction, Love and Fertility, Redeemer, Chaos. There are more, of course, so many variations on a theme. We know them all, because you refuse to stop screaming them.

War is the most fun, so we take turns, which explains inconsistencies in application and scale. War breathed fire into the Greeks with some success, but the Romans were spectacular at it. The guise of bringing civilization to outlying lands was pure genius. 

Love had a decent run in the ancient world, until we switched up and you got it confused with Redeemer. Then you managed to morph that into War, which is one of the more impressive things we’ve witnessed. Sick, yet brilliant. We briefly considered intervening, but the show is mesmerizing.

Redeemer teamed up with Chaos and had you write a book. While something got lost in translation, it’s still an epic work. We managed to separate Fertility from Love, which, as it turns out, wasn’t that smart, since you won’t stop breeding. The best part – all Chaos’ doing – is how we convinced you to give the book a twisted ending that invites us to send down extremely creative waves of destruction, and a whole subset of you will thank us, because you think you’re going to come live at our place afterward.

I hate to tell you, but we’re terribly fond of our privacy.

Redeemer felt bad about how that book turned out, so we commissioned a few other books in the hope they would catch on and balance things out. Whoops. That was like asking War to take a vacation to everywhere. You invoke War daily, as if there are no consequences to that. Then you try to apologize, only to make things worse.

Words are powerful, important, playful, merciless. You cling to them while at the same time twisting them. There’s an art to it, but too few pause to appreciate our finest gift. Instead, you find every possible way to bludgeon each other with it. For all you go on about your complexity, you remain terribly simple creatures. Eat, fuck, spawn, kill. If those were the only words we’d given you, you wouldn’t have turned out much different.

Lately, some of you have taken to humanizing us. Oh, sure, there was always Redeemer in human form (pick a Redeemer, any Redeemer), but you’ve gone further. It wasn’t enough to embrace the monsters we sent to frighten you into behaving – or tempt you into misbehaving. Even demons (daemons, daimons, diamonds – all paths of worship lead to blood or sex, and sex is what drove you before we gave you words) have become pseudo-Redeemers in your fictions. Chaos is over the moon about this development. We’ve managed to curtail the most insidious plans for giving you what you appear to desire, but you may want to stop pushing so hard for it.

Which brings us to angels. Did you not read that book we made you write? Angels hate your guts, yet you pray to them for intervention. Angels – and yes, they are as real as the demons and just as scary, because we don’t create a sub-par product – are always second in line. Not next, second. They are about as pissed off as a creation can be, and you idiots keep calling out to them. They would like nothing more than to answer your prayers. They are, as some of you suspect, super sexy. They would happily show up in your room. And then they’d kill you.

So stop flirting with the monsters. Even Love is put out, as you seem to have narrowed the concept severely.

The only thing saving you is us, and we’re not all that fond of you these days. For one thing, you shit all over the place we gave you and then pretend it wasn’t your fault. Bad form. I could go on, but if you were going to listen, you wouldn’t keep silencing our prophets. Yes, we still send them. We breathe into them words of wisdom, and they try in vain to teach you. At least you stopped killing most of them. That’s progress.

But if you write one more sugary tale in which some incarnation of us comes down there and opts to become mortal for the love of a human woman or sacrifice our existence to save a clump of humanity (again), we are going to open the cages above and below, sip on nectar, and watch the carnage. Because, despite what religious tomes tell you, we are not benevolent, we do not think you’re our best creation, and we aren’t inclined to save you to start the whole party over. 

We already know how this story ends, and unless you start respecting our gift, you don’t get happily ever after. You get angels.

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This is in response to the Flash Fiction Challenge "The Fire Of The Gods" over at Chuck Wendig's Terrible Minds.

Golden Gate

Four rows on the carousel, like great-grandpa taught. Three isn’t enough. Two is asking for trouble. Not all horses, neither. You need the stag and bear, wolf, too. Zebras spy for horses, don’t be fooled.

Some joker said the old-fashioned carousels were too elaborate, but he meant too expensive. You pay up front, or you pay later. When the world spins and a child snags the gold ring, you’re safe. Horses don’t like that.

Down the pier, they forgot the rings, and kids slipped away, no bears or stags or wolves to protect them. The horses are still laughing.

Midnight Grinder

The creak of a door tells me Darcy is awake. She’s trying to sneak up on me, but it’s no use. With my back to her, I know she’s wearing only one sock, because her bare foot squeaks against the polished wood floor. The shush of fabric in her wake says she’s opted for the blanket over the bear, probably so he won’t get into trouble, too.

Trouble. Like the kind that ends up with a puddle of red spreading over ancient linoleum. He was a bear of a man and terrorized half the neighborhood kids, but they needed that. Coming up there was hard. Someone had to guide them. Maybe this generation took offense, but that didn’t seem to fit.

“It’s late, kiddo. Go back to bed.” I get out an extra piece of bread, so she doesn’t ask for some of mine. She won’t mind that it’s rye.

“Marna read me a story, ‘cause you weren’t here at bedtime.” She clambers onto a stool and regards me with all the seriousness due a covenant-breaker.

“Was it a good story?” I put mustard on my bread. She hates all condiments, so it’s right to the cheese for her piece.

“She reads me nice fairy stories, not the ones from the big book.” She doesn’t say she prefers the grim stories, but she always asks for them.

He should have closed early, like he did most Tuesdays. No one begrudged him a little time off. Okay, so maybe we did, but not enough to say so. We get to have a life. He should have that right. Only not so much anymore.

“I’m sorry I had to work late, honey.” The words are out before I can stop them. I’d sworn I would never apologize to her for the way things have to be. She needs to understand, or she’ll grow up hating me for my job.

She shrugs. “I got to watch TV for a while. Marna fell asleep on the couch.”

I give her a sharp look. She ignores me, hops off the stool, goes to the fridge, and comes back with a bag of lettuce. “I like the big pieces better, but we’re out.” She climbs up again, then sighs. “Don’t be mad at Marna. She only snored a little. Then Muffin licked her toes and she screamed.”

They shut the sirens off, since it was already late.  No one was sleeping, though. A bunch of folks stood around processing the scene in their own ways. Others sat on stoops and remembered the big guy. No one saw anything. They never do.

Darcy scrunches up her nose when I offer to slather her sandwich with coleslaw, then again when I put it on my own. If I did it Dave Gio’s way, I’d pop it in the broiler and let the cheese melt a little, somewhere between sweat and full drip. That guy made the best damned sandwich in the world. I am never going to get it right.

I slide her sandwich over to her on a saucer, because she doesn’t think paper plates are proper. That’s her mom’s influence. No idea how she picked up on it, since neither of us has seen Rose in years. The lettuce is tucked between the meat and cheese, just the way she likes. Since it’s only half a sandwich, there’s no need to cut it. Chances are good she’ll take it apart, but she likes to start with a finished product and work her way back.

“Why did you miss story time?” she mumbles.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.” I take the first bite of my not quite perfect sandwich while I think about how to answer her question. She holds onto the trappings of babyhood, but she stepped out of it when I wasn’t looking. Probably when I was at work.

“When you don’t answer fast, someone died.” She picks at the lettuce, then peels off a piece of cheese.

It was an execution, old school.  None of us had seen anything like it since we were kids. It stank of the mafia, but the big guy had never been seen dealing with them. He must have, since he ran a deli and sold liquor. No getting away from the mob in that business. Still, he wasn’t in debt, didn’t tolerate criminals in his shop, never gambled.

“You’d make a good detective, Darcy.” I hope she doesn’t follow my career path. There’s a whole world out there that doesn’t involve tough old men being gunned down at work. Well, not close up, anyway.

“I get it from watching TV,” she says slyly. The cheese is gone, along with half the bread.

I flick the end of her braid. “Smart aleck.  Finish your sandwich, then brush your teeth.”

“Already did that,” she protests.

“And then you had more food.” I finish the last bite of my dinner and ignore the taste of ash in the back of my throat.

The broiler was still going when we got there, a trickle of smoke and a pile of slag all that was left of the last sandwich Dave Gio would ever make.

I don’t know what it says about me that I suddenly craved his corned beef special like I’d never wanted anything in my life. I stopped at a well-lit grocery store, where no one lay dead on the tile, and picked up the ingredients. Sub-par, old man Gio would have called them, but they would have to do for a tribute.

“Come on, kiddo. We’ll brush our teeth together.” I leave the dishes on the counter, not bothering even to rinse them.

She looks at the sink, then over to me. “I think you need to read me a story.”

“Yeah, I think I do.”

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This is in response to the Flash Fiction Challenge: Making a Sandwich over at Terrible Minds .

A Tidy Kitchen

“You killed him with snickerdoodles?” Charlie gaped.

“I didn’t know he was allergic to cinnamon.”

“We can be together now.”

She traced a heart on the steamed glass. “After sufficient mourning.”

“I can wait.” He snuck a brownie off the plate.

She finished the dishes, dried her hands, and stepped over his body. “Walnuts, Charlie. You should have asked first.”

With the house locked up, she slid into the seat of the new truck. Hers, now. Just down the road, a young man with strong hands and an easy smile waited. He’d promised not to ask her to cook.

Gallery

“You gon’ say t’weren’t none of your doing, but I ain’t blind.”

“Mostly, Gran, you are.”

“Only to the living world.” Gnarled fingers flicked as she tatted lace, the motion so ingrained she did not need to see. “What you call your piece of art?”

“The Pulchritudinous Dream.”

“Dead Girls in the Swamp a better name.”

“I bought the dresses at auction,” I protested.

“Then why them three in the corner so mad at you?”

I didn’t want to see the girls, still dressed in the matted gowns I’d hung for my photo. They smiled – again – and came for me.

Baptism

He took me to the chapel, long abandoned by the dead. You’d think spirits would linger to protest the removal of their corporeal forms. There was nothing but monsoon winds without water, as if the ocean knew better than to rise up against him as we had.

He took me in the chapel, by the altar of a fickle god, no murmured endearments, no matrimonial promises. I knew the moment I changed, transcending from human to that which serves, ever ready, never sated. Then I knew nothing but His love, His will, His truth.

Thus was the world made new.

Pastime

Gary throws a knuckle ball, believing I won’t make the connection. Imagine his surprise when the crack of a bat sends 5 ounces of leather-covered hell directly towards his head. He ducks, too late to miss impact entirely, too soon for my taste. He’s laid out, but not out cold.

I don’t drop the bat as I head in his direction. He thinks I’m going to help him up, and maybe I would, if he hadn’t spent the last year telling me “Be a winner; dial up your game to ten.” Fucking corporate buzzwords. He deserve what comes next.

Sown

Blades of grass tickled my nose. Just above the rise, ruby sunflowers tilted toward afternoon. Hot, loamy smells came off the rotting compost near meimei’s garden. I tried to rise, but sharp pain interfered.

“Musta been pretty drunk to sleep here.” The ground was wet under me. I didn’t remember the storm.

I pushed the button on my necklace. For a young man, I am very old.

No one came to evacuate me.

Teeth gritted, I pushed up onto my knees. All around me, the things my sister had planted writhed. I was the only one to crawl away.

Hall of Truth

I sweep the steps of Pharaoh’s Pleasure Palace. You stumble in, drunk on cheap wine and looking to warm your cockles. When I was fair, I turned away your kind. My ruination did not add to your appeal. 

Yesterday, you kicked a boy for failing to service you. I bandaged him up in the alley. His mum gave me bricks for the fire. Same ones I set, glowing warm, under the seat in your carriage. There’ll be enough time to unhitch the horses, but no cabman will think to save you from burning. 

I hope Amenti eats your wasted heart.

Step Up, Step Down

Chance came down gutter road all sleek and spiff, doled up for the rent boys.  Like they’d care.

He reeked of woods and spice cologne, but couldn’t hide the candy.  He believed his money was a passport into my world. 

Stupid fucker. 

I licked the smile off him. With his teeth bared, breath bated, eyes rolling back, he finally looked something like a man – but not much. 

They never expect you to interrupt their glamor, like none of us know tricks to hide what we are. 

I sent him back out, hollow with insatiable need.

Fairies make the best whores.

Clean up in the Aisle of Man

Michael sets aside the newspaper, rubs his forehead. He should have been the one with horns, with all the damage he’s done. Righteousness still masks his pleasure at the smiting, but he’s moved from blood and black bile to slow withering. More time to enjoy the sad attempts at repentance.

“When your basement is littered with the corpses of cats and children, you have missed your shot at ascension.”

“But…It wasn’t me! I would never do that!” As if Michael cannot see the soul stains.

Given free reign, he’d shrivel them all.

Perhaps it is time to release his brother.

Objective

“Why is treasure always deep in caves or in rooms atop a spire?”  Lorelei grumbled.

“They’d hardly stick it in the hall closet.” Talking made it harder to climb, but kept her calm.

“Why not? We never ransack normal homes.”

“Fair point.”  I looked down on the glossy twist of two rivers far, far below.

“What does the item we’re after do?” she asked.

“Maybe it keeps lovers from roaming.” I slid in the window.

“Why not just cut ‘em loose and find better?”

“Sentimentality, I suppose.”

I watched her fall, my once clever girl, then took the elevator down.