The room is tangibly cold. It makes me uncomfortable, and I keep swinging my tail as if to keep ice from collecting along it, even though I know it won't. To me, everything has a filter of gray, except the girl. Except, Elizabeth. She slumps against her bed, unmoving, a letter opener held loose between her fingers. The enameled handle appears to be a deep red wood with a black grain, and has clear crystals set around the base of the blade. There is no sweet scent of blood, and the blade is clean, though tarnished.
All beings have a light. Devils and angels can see it without trying, and sometimes mortals can as well. It sends pulses through the air, crawling along the skin of devils, angels, and mortals alike. Mortals' lights are weak, barely a match stick. They bleed together into a dull hum of sensation, in comparison beings such as myself send out a charge that allow mortals to feel hope or dread when we just step into their plane.
I can't see hers, I can't feel it, but she's not dead. Her entire body expands and contracts with the labor of her breathing, as if all her muscles are too weak to resist her lungs. Her head rocks, hair swings but continues to cover her face. She seems to be absorbing the rules of existence, like a black star. It unnerves me.
Showing posts with label Devil. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Devil. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Moment of Movement
"What are you so excited about?" I ask as I step up behind two giggling imps. Their large ears bend and sway with their movements, the purple imp on the left has half of one of his missing. I think I did that, but I don't really care to try and remember.
They skip around a hole dug in the black dirt and chanting, bearing crooked and broken teeth in mockery of smiles, giggling and clapping their bony, clawed hands that were bigger than their heads. At my voice their faces shatter into looks of terror, the remnants of the smiles vanishing into the ground, wiggling and writhing. I brush my heal over where the malicious glee had been, digging it in a little bit. Stupid little insects, they get so excited when it's not even them doing the work.
"Well?" I make my voice snap and drop an octave, just to watch them cower and squeal.
"Ah! Master don't be angry! Zizil and Kirml doing good!" screeches the green one, scuffling around and clasping his hands together. "Zizil got the hole dug before the soul is here! Kirml has the seed ready already! We does good!"
I forget which one is Zizil and which one is Kirml. It doesn't matter much to anyway. I peer into the visually bottomless hole, and see that there is a tear in the air. Purple energy frames it to keep the breech from ripping through the entire plane. I can see a room, brown carpet, dull green walls. The image is still blurry.
So, another mortal is going to off themself. The imps are preparing the hole for the tree to be planted in that traps the soul for the rest of eternity. I have nothing better to do, that lazy Dexmes is taking his sweet time on getting back to me about the runework I need to find the girl Elizabeth. I think he enjoys it too much when I have to ask something of him. Damn bookworms. I will rip his head off at some point and bind it so I can use his information anytime I want.
So I might as well see what kind of tree this new idiot will make. If it's any good I'll stick around and break its branches to talk to it. See what it knows.
The two imps huddle behind my feet, occasionally reaching out to hug my boot and I swat them away with the flat of my tail head. I can't stand grovelling. Waste of time, energy, and pride.
The image grows clearer. The first thing to show up is a picture of pale, skinny ladies with butterfly wings bathing in a pond. Must be a girl's room. Mortal guys wouldn't have naked butterfly ladies up on the wall. Under that stands a desk, made of dark, solid wood, and it is drowned in papers, note cards, and an army of differently colored pens. So this person likes to write. Probably going to kill themself because they can't get anything published or they write some abstract bullshit that no one understands. They don't get me. What shit. If people don't understand then make it fucking clearer what you want to say!
No one sits in the armchair, which is set askew so the arm of the chair presses against the lip of the desk. The image turns to locate the soul. I'm right, it's a girl. She's tall, her legs are really long. Thin though, she must look like a stork when standing straight, especially with the round hips that they connected to. Good handles.
Her hair is messed all over her face, head bowed. I can't see her face, but the base of my spine tingles. My tail curls up like a scorpion's. Shit.
It's Elizabeth.
I whirl and snatch up the two imps by the necks. Their heads enlarge as I clench my hands and their eyes bulge out from their weird skulls. I toss the green one up into the air and swing my tail, slicing through his pointed nose and cutting him clean in half. He didn't squeal. He had no time to. The purple one gasps and chokes, clutching at my hand as my claws dig into the side of his neck.
"Master, master Kirml does good! Kimrl does good just tell Kirml--"
I stick my tail's blade into his mouth and twist it before pushing it through his small body into his stomach. I flick my tail to knock the twitching mess off and to the ground.
That takes care of the imps, buying me marginally more time. I clap my hands together to brush away the grimy feeling of imp panic. The tear is still open, but the energy fizzles now that the imps were rebuilding themselves in their spawning grounds on another plane. I launch forward and dive into the collapsing rift.
They skip around a hole dug in the black dirt and chanting, bearing crooked and broken teeth in mockery of smiles, giggling and clapping their bony, clawed hands that were bigger than their heads. At my voice their faces shatter into looks of terror, the remnants of the smiles vanishing into the ground, wiggling and writhing. I brush my heal over where the malicious glee had been, digging it in a little bit. Stupid little insects, they get so excited when it's not even them doing the work.
"Well?" I make my voice snap and drop an octave, just to watch them cower and squeal.
"Ah! Master don't be angry! Zizil and Kirml doing good!" screeches the green one, scuffling around and clasping his hands together. "Zizil got the hole dug before the soul is here! Kirml has the seed ready already! We does good!"
I forget which one is Zizil and which one is Kirml. It doesn't matter much to anyway. I peer into the visually bottomless hole, and see that there is a tear in the air. Purple energy frames it to keep the breech from ripping through the entire plane. I can see a room, brown carpet, dull green walls. The image is still blurry.
So, another mortal is going to off themself. The imps are preparing the hole for the tree to be planted in that traps the soul for the rest of eternity. I have nothing better to do, that lazy Dexmes is taking his sweet time on getting back to me about the runework I need to find the girl Elizabeth. I think he enjoys it too much when I have to ask something of him. Damn bookworms. I will rip his head off at some point and bind it so I can use his information anytime I want.
So I might as well see what kind of tree this new idiot will make. If it's any good I'll stick around and break its branches to talk to it. See what it knows.
The two imps huddle behind my feet, occasionally reaching out to hug my boot and I swat them away with the flat of my tail head. I can't stand grovelling. Waste of time, energy, and pride.
The image grows clearer. The first thing to show up is a picture of pale, skinny ladies with butterfly wings bathing in a pond. Must be a girl's room. Mortal guys wouldn't have naked butterfly ladies up on the wall. Under that stands a desk, made of dark, solid wood, and it is drowned in papers, note cards, and an army of differently colored pens. So this person likes to write. Probably going to kill themself because they can't get anything published or they write some abstract bullshit that no one understands. They don't get me. What shit. If people don't understand then make it fucking clearer what you want to say!
No one sits in the armchair, which is set askew so the arm of the chair presses against the lip of the desk. The image turns to locate the soul. I'm right, it's a girl. She's tall, her legs are really long. Thin though, she must look like a stork when standing straight, especially with the round hips that they connected to. Good handles.
Her hair is messed all over her face, head bowed. I can't see her face, but the base of my spine tingles. My tail curls up like a scorpion's. Shit.
It's Elizabeth.
I whirl and snatch up the two imps by the necks. Their heads enlarge as I clench my hands and their eyes bulge out from their weird skulls. I toss the green one up into the air and swing my tail, slicing through his pointed nose and cutting him clean in half. He didn't squeal. He had no time to. The purple one gasps and chokes, clutching at my hand as my claws dig into the side of his neck.
"Master, master Kirml does good! Kimrl does good just tell Kirml--"
I stick my tail's blade into his mouth and twist it before pushing it through his small body into his stomach. I flick my tail to knock the twitching mess off and to the ground.
That takes care of the imps, buying me marginally more time. I clap my hands together to brush away the grimy feeling of imp panic. The tear is still open, but the energy fizzles now that the imps were rebuilding themselves in their spawning grounds on another plane. I launch forward and dive into the collapsing rift.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Jump Start
He strikes a match, lets it burn, swings his wrist and snaps it to make the head die in a puff of pitiful smoke. It wasn't even enough to survive for two seconds in the scented air of the room. It smelled like lavender. Now it smells like burnt lavender.
He flicks the match, it strikes the wall, leaves a dusty black mark and drops into the garbage bin. The bin is full of crumpled and ripped papers that the girl has given up on. Half scenes, short scenes, single sentences and full exposition mar the once smooth and pretty paper. Failed words and writing, a disease on the sheets that never asked for anything but to be useful. They aren't useful. She made them useless. A word was wrong, it gets scratched out, a sentence is wrong it gets scribbled into oblivion. But what if it is wrong? All of it. The very core reasoning of the original thought that sparked to life a match in her mind that burns bright until it reaches her pen and then it fizzles.
She can't finish. She goes and goes, writes and writes and breathes life into people and worlds. They grow in her head, a forest, spreading wide and reaching high. Then a flame starts at the corner and she stops. She can't save it. It's the biggest moment when all is supposed to explode in a beautiful flash of acceleration. It stops. She closes her eyes and the forest withers into darkness. She puts her pen down and slides the notebook into her desk, where seven others sit, half full, full full, never finished.
He lights a match, he lets it burn. He lets the flame engulf his hand. It doesn't hurt. He's a devil. It turns black as it feeds on something not there, that it can never completely consume.
He flicks the match, it strikes the wall, leaves a dusty black mark and drops into the garbage bin. The bin is full of crumpled and ripped papers that the girl has given up on. Half scenes, short scenes, single sentences and full exposition mar the once smooth and pretty paper. Failed words and writing, a disease on the sheets that never asked for anything but to be useful. They aren't useful. She made them useless. A word was wrong, it gets scratched out, a sentence is wrong it gets scribbled into oblivion. But what if it is wrong? All of it. The very core reasoning of the original thought that sparked to life a match in her mind that burns bright until it reaches her pen and then it fizzles.
She can't finish. She goes and goes, writes and writes and breathes life into people and worlds. They grow in her head, a forest, spreading wide and reaching high. Then a flame starts at the corner and she stops. She can't save it. It's the biggest moment when all is supposed to explode in a beautiful flash of acceleration. It stops. She closes her eyes and the forest withers into darkness. She puts her pen down and slides the notebook into her desk, where seven others sit, half full, full full, never finished.
He lights a match, he lets it burn. He lets the flame engulf his hand. It doesn't hurt. He's a devil. It turns black as it feeds on something not there, that it can never completely consume.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
From a Devil, of an Angel
I know quite a bit about angels, a lot more than most can claim. I have felt the heartbeat, the skin, the breath, and have heard the sweet song of an angel in the throes of pleasure. You see, angels are not genderless, and they are not immune to the emotions of the mortal coil, just like us devils. She is the most beautiful of them all, and devils do not lie, we are just adept at twisting truths. I can not claim that I tricked her into my arms, not that I would wish to. Angels are protected from at least that sort of thing. They are passionate creatures, and they feel emotions quite acutely, a few in particular.
Happiness, sorrow, sympathy, and love. Yes, she would know if I did not love her, no matter what I did. I am not such a tasteless monster to attempt complicated spells to try to fool her. Believe me, or not, I love her. I love her smile, her innocence that she retains despite my ability to claim her virginity. She is not naive, just innocent. She was willing to love me, cherish and comfort me, even when fully aware of my standing in these planes.
I would be lying if I said her body meant nothing to me, and I will tell the truth that it was what first attracted me. I could see the lovely shape even when wrapped modestly, almost shyly, in elegant Victorian gowns. I only became more attached once I had approached in my guise, the one she easily saw through. This attachment, love, only increased when I had her, bare, in my arms. She is quiet, in all situations, but quick to smile and laugh when I do not have her head reeling, and not just from talented touches. I find I ache unless I have her enveloped close in my arms, but it is one I enjoy. I have proven, if only to myself and her, that devils can have a heart.
I have never worked harder for my partner than for her, I want her to feel the highest levels of bliss each and every time. She responds well to my energy, my movements, and I keep very aware of how she moves to adjust us accordingly. Of course, sometimes the urge to pin her is overwhelming, she is just so adorable, but I will only do such a thing with my own hands. Her skin is far too precious to me to mar with anything that is not my grip, and the feel of her heartbeat in her wrists is an intoxicating pleasure I cannot deny myself. There is one position, however, that will never happen. Mortals call it "doggy style", I believe. It is vulgar and degrading to her, and I will not allow such a thing. Who would want to only see their lover's back side? I love her face, and the only time her back is to me is when her body is flush to mine, her head against my shoulder.
Blushing? What did you think the conversation would be about?
I am a devil.
Happiness, sorrow, sympathy, and love. Yes, she would know if I did not love her, no matter what I did. I am not such a tasteless monster to attempt complicated spells to try to fool her. Believe me, or not, I love her. I love her smile, her innocence that she retains despite my ability to claim her virginity. She is not naive, just innocent. She was willing to love me, cherish and comfort me, even when fully aware of my standing in these planes.
I would be lying if I said her body meant nothing to me, and I will tell the truth that it was what first attracted me. I could see the lovely shape even when wrapped modestly, almost shyly, in elegant Victorian gowns. I only became more attached once I had approached in my guise, the one she easily saw through. This attachment, love, only increased when I had her, bare, in my arms. She is quiet, in all situations, but quick to smile and laugh when I do not have her head reeling, and not just from talented touches. I find I ache unless I have her enveloped close in my arms, but it is one I enjoy. I have proven, if only to myself and her, that devils can have a heart.
I have never worked harder for my partner than for her, I want her to feel the highest levels of bliss each and every time. She responds well to my energy, my movements, and I keep very aware of how she moves to adjust us accordingly. Of course, sometimes the urge to pin her is overwhelming, she is just so adorable, but I will only do such a thing with my own hands. Her skin is far too precious to me to mar with anything that is not my grip, and the feel of her heartbeat in her wrists is an intoxicating pleasure I cannot deny myself. There is one position, however, that will never happen. Mortals call it "doggy style", I believe. It is vulgar and degrading to her, and I will not allow such a thing. Who would want to only see their lover's back side? I love her face, and the only time her back is to me is when her body is flush to mine, her head against my shoulder.
Blushing? What did you think the conversation would be about?
I am a devil.
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