Fantasy
Souls, Angels, Devils, God, and gods. Certain tales are best understood through the lens of religion.
"So it's like this, Beth..." God stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and leaned across the bar, close enough for me to smell his cheap cologne. "I'm not omnipotent."
"But you're God." I took a swig of my beer. "The all-knowing."
The Devil and The Blues
Met the devil one day, drinking coffee at my favorite breakfast cafe. Devil was looking at me while I was reading my paper.
It was 2 a.m., a time of day so thin that nothing seemed real, but the tubes cycling in and out of my husband like external blood vessels, his monitors' rhythmic beeps of electronic pulses, the ventilator's hiss and sigh, all kept pulling me back to a reality I didn't want to accept. The doctors had told me Robert was "actively dying." Actively dying? What did that mean? Pale, emaciated, and immobile, Robert's coma seemed the antithesis of any action.
His parents and sister hadn't yet arrived; unable to resign from their jobs as I had mine, they'd given up their constant vigil months ago, so by the bed I sat alone with my husband of twenty years. My continual presence and loving attention hadn't been enough to bring him back to life, to actively living.
Begin with water.
Cup it in your hands. You can feel its utter lack of character. It has no texture; it has no resistance. It is substance, and yet it is emptiness. It possesses nothing of its own. It cannot give; it can only borrow.
Amraphel curled his already hunched body atop the chest of the first sleeper Dream had assigned him that night, her location plucked from the parchment he had been given long ago which remained blank until the dreamer was nearly ready. As the woman snored, her torso bucking irregularly, he rode spasmodically up and down in the darkness, cursing his luck.
He already resented the humans upon which he preyed, but he hated even more the members of that species who snored. They distracted him as he worked, and degraded what was meant to be a noble and uplifting process. Each unconscious snort, each jerk of the woman's head as she struggled to breathe, only served to deepen his pain, underlining the unfairness that humans, so roughly hewn, so clumsily conceived, could do what he could not, reminding him that while it was in their nature to easily tap into the divine, he could only--as a function of his centuries-long apprenticeship--borrow it, but never own it.
When they came for her father, he hugged her tight and whispered into her ear, "Never forget your daddy loves you." Even as they tore her from his arms, she promised with all the earnestness a child of seven can muster that she would never, ever forget.
And she didn't, even when they handed her over to a stony-faced woman who told her to forget her father, then smacked her face until her mouth bled when she balked at this new name she couldn't even pronounce. In the orphanage to which that woman delivered her, she comforted herself with memories of his love when the staff took glee in pointing her out as a criminal's get so all the children would taunt her and nobody would ever dare break ranks and be her friend, lest they too be contaminated.
Stalker feels the leers of wall-leaning pool-players slide along her spandex dress--she's worth gazes, even though she gilds her hair to hide sneaking gray.
She breathes alcohol-and-hormone haze. Ah--her prey are at the bar, his buzz-cut gray head nuzzling her sleek neck, her young face bored, as on most nights.
The angel floated just below the rafters of Amy's bedroom. It glowed like a Christmas ornament: rainbow colours shimmering across its translucent, slow-sculling wings. Its soft radiance filled the darkened room.
Religious
Souls, Angels, Devils, God, and gods. Certain tales are best understood through the lens of religion.
by Barbara A. Barnett
Published on Mar 7, 2011
by T.J. Berg
Published on Aug 31, 2011
by Brenta Blevins
Published on Jun 2, 2011
by Jacob A. Boyd
Chase entered one end of a narrow white-walled room and crossed it toward a chair positioned before an unfamiliar man at the far end. But for the man and the chair, the room remained featureless. Chase was drawn to them.
Seated, Chase asked, “Am I dreaming?”
Published on Nov 29, 2010
by Brian Dolton
Published on Dec 9, 2010
by Scott Edelman
Published on Aug 12, 2011
by Eugie Foster
Movement 1:
I could ignore the boys at school. By and large, they left me alone. Guess I wasn't pretty enough or interesting enough to be worth their attention, which was fine by me. It wasn't like I wanted to cram my feet in suicide heels or dangle door-knockers from my ears like some hoochie bimbo, anyway. But the girls were trouble. Since Mom and I had moved from Chicago to New Orleans into the pink and yellow house Gran had left us, they'd honed in on me like they had something to prove.
Published on Sep 9, 2011
by Andrew Kaye
As Abigail's soul dripped slowly into my gut, I started thinking about the rest of my family. What they did, how they lived. Everyone always teased Grandpa about how his soul would taste. He was such a good person that his soul would have tasted like pure heaven. I thought about Mom and Dad. I thought about me. What sort of life would I live? What kind of soul would I leave behind for my family?
Published on Aug 29, 2011
by Leigh Kimmel
Published on Nov 23, 2011
by Melissa Mead
The old devil blinked. They stood on the blank storage platform, and the lost soul, looking more opaque than before, was shaking a finger at him.
“That was too easy. You left a trail of bloody footprints. Now you find me!” It turned and dived off the edge.
Published on Sep 9, 2010
by William Meikle
The man who walked into my office was old-school through and through. A squad of little old ladies on Harris had toiled for years to make his suit, his school tie was knotted just right, and his brogues squeaked as he walked across the room. He looked to be in his seventies, but held his back ramrod straight. He strode into the room as if he owned it and thrust a hand at me that I couldn’t refuse to shake.
“Thanks for seeing me doctor,” he said.
Published on Nov 16, 2010
by Jennifer Moore
“Never mind. You’re here now,” continued the man, as if he hadn’t heard. “And it’s your turn. Go on, my lovely.” There was a black hollow at the front of his mouth where teeth should have been. “Pick a jug. Any jug. You get to keep the soul inside.”
Published on Sep 23, 2010
by Cheryl Wood Ruggiero
Published on Nov 24, 2011
by Henry Szabranski
Published on Oct 19, 2011
