Souls, Angels, Devils, God, and gods. Certain tales are best understood through the lens of religion.
Murderers have a special planet they go to when they die. Kepler 22b. Oh yes. Attorneys who represent them don't know that. Well, no one really knows that.
I know all about it now. I was accused of murdering Harrison Reed, Esquire. "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. At the first chill of winter in Delphi, Aristonike's husband was struck with fever and died. Aristonike washed his gnarled body with her calloused hands and placed one of their few coins in his mouth. Her two boys and their wives helped with careful piety, while her grandchildren squawked and squalled.
With the funeral done and quiet restored, Aristonike was confirmed in her decision: she would not live with either of her boys' families. Her sons' wives were pleasant, but that would change if she stuck her nose into it. She'd be bound to tell those proud girls to dirty their hands and milk their own goats, for starters. No, she would go someplace where she wouldn't cause trouble. 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. The suicide witch crushes glass in her leather gloves. Shards crumble like crackers over soup, filling her metal bucket. The witch's fingers squeak together in the damp cellar air. Glitter escapes over the worktable's edge, like white stars vanishing in the low torchlight. A peasant girl lies dead on a funeral board, her dress nailed to the wood in thirteen places.
The witch's name is Yim, but none call her that. She lives under the noble house of Jiang in the province of Kung-lao, in a cellar with puddles like rice paddies. In the summer, fat flies buzz around her face until she swats them down. In the winter, her knees ache, and she coughs in the dampness as if she were an old hag. But Yim's ragged hair is black without silver, and her face shows no lines. She can still see in the dark. 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. "Here's a good one," Kali said. The left corner of her mouth was curved up like a dog-eared page: her trickster smile. In her hand was a crumpled parchment with ancient letters scrawled messily across it. "'Please strike down this impious philosopher with your mighty lightning.' Unsigned."
Horatio moved beside her and tried to stare over her shoulder. "Addressed to whom?" It begins the same as always, with the sound of the shovel scraping over the country road. I sit upon the dashboard of the idling car--being a turtle, it's the only way I can see--watching as the old woman lifts her shovel, carrying the mangled carcass of a squirrel.
She opens the rear door and places the squirrel into a shoebox on the back seat. The smell is not pleasant, but I say nothing. She seals the lid. Zaphira spoke to God. It wasn't that she had been taught to, or that she was at a loss for conversation partners. It was mainly that no one else was interested in talking metaphysics with a four year old. The other children at daycare would stare blankly, and if she became too insistent Miss Carnegie sent her to Quiet Corner. Which was where she was now.
She rocked forward on the Quiet Corner carpet until her forehead bumped against the dust-colored wall. She closed her eyes and pressed her fingers against the lids creating bursts of color that matched the rhythm of the bumping. 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.
Souls, Angels, Devils, God, and gods. Certain tales are best understood through the lens of religion.
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