Matt Meets Mara

“It’s this girl. I don’t know, It feels like I see her everywhere.”

“What girl?”

“I don’t know. She’s different every time. When I’m out eating, or on the bus.”

“Different every time? What do you mean?”

“These women come up to me, and they—“

“That sounds like a deal.” Matt interrupted.

Jason furrowed his brow, “They come up to me and they tell me things. But always the same exact thing.”

“Chalk it up to lack of imagination, man.”

“No, it isn’t that. It’s the details. Her name is Mara.”

“Which one?”

“All of them!” Jason guestured wildly. “They are all Mara.”

“Who’s Mara?”

“God, I have no idea! These women, who just, I don’t know. They seem so unrelated. And they just introduce themselves. They tell me something about my eyes, something about their father. "

“Pretty name. You ask any of them out?”

“I never get to that.”

A waitress, snapping gum, came up with a cheery, all-too-happy smile, “Can I get you boys anything else?”

Matt eyed the waitress for a second . “Uh, no, we’re good umm—“ He looked at her nametag. “ Just the check, ok, Cindy?”

“You got it!” and with a loud snap, the waitress shuffled off.

Matt turned back to Jason, who was now pouting with his hands folded in front of him. “Jason, you ever think that she’s in your mind? You know, seeing what you want to see?”

“No. Well, sure. Maybe.” Jason reached out and slowly rotated his glass of ice water in front of him. He frowned at Matt, “I don’t –“ He stopped, and then breathed a few shallow breaths and a choke. “I miss her.”

“Hey bro, we all miss her. But you’ve gotta stop driving yourself crazy with this, you know?”

Jason looked away. “I don’t know what I’m doing. It’s just –“ He stopped himself and stammered for a moment. “Just—“ He put his hand to his eye and slyly wiped a tear, pretending to preen his hair. He looked back at Matt, “I have no idea what I’m supposed to do now.”

Matt smiled at Jason, “Buddy,” He leaned forward, “You are allowed to be sad. I mean, it’s a good thing you know. You get it out and you move on. You aren’t supposed to just get over it. Michelle is a big part of you.” He laughed, “You’d be one sorry suck if you forgot her.” He tapped the table, “Hey, man.” Jason smiled back weakly. “Hey, you are doing alright. You just need to get around people again. You know, talk, party, relate.”

Cindy had returned and set the check in front of Jason with two obligatory peppermints. Matt reached over and snatched up the check and a mint. Cindy had not moved yet.

“Thank you, Cindy.” Jason looked up at her. She was looking intently at him.

Matt noticed her attention, “Thanks, Cindy. Here.” He held out a twenty.

“Hi.” Cindy said to Jason. “I just –“ she fumbled for her words. “You seem familiar.”

Jason smiled and nodded, “I get that.”
“No, it’s –“ She seemed a little disoriented. She reached out her hand to shake his. “I’m sorry, you just seem-- Your eyes. Have we met?”
Jason flicked a look at Matt, who was now just staring at the waitress with more than a little curiosity, his hand still outstretched.
“Mara?” Jason said in a low, soft voice.
“I think so.” She whispered. “Do we know each other?”
Jason took her hand. “I think we do. I’m Jason.”
“I knew that.” Mara smiled, and then blinked, and looked over at Matt. “Yeah, ok.” She chewed on her gum. She took the bill from Matt, “Well, thanks. Be right back with your change.” She sharply pulled her hand from Jason. Matt cocked his head, “Keep it. Mara?”
“No, Cindy.” She tapped her nametag, “Cindy. “ She walked away, “You boys have a great day!”
Matt turned to Jason, who was looking a little proud of himself. Matt stood from the table. “All of them, huh?” He popped his mint in his mouth and threw the wrapper on the table. “Let’s start over. Tell me about this girl.”

Above Water

This story was my therapy. It's a metaphor for several things. Loneliness, Sex, Frustration. I needed to understand that when you set out on a personal journey, the world will support you and drown you. The ship was inspired by a painting I saw of a tiny ship in a maddening storm.

Behind a tiny wheel upon a wooden ship is a captain. His eyes are dark and his brow is furrowed. His skin is beaten and red as he holds his wheel steady, pushing his craft across the ocean. Sometimes the water is like glass, and the ship glides effortlessly, but just as often, the water bounds against his hull, threatening to drown him along with his vessel.

He is a proud captain, and he laughs at the water. “Rage on.” He calls out to the sea as he turns his craft up a large rolling wave. Spray smacks against him as the sky grows dark. He grits his teeth. The ocean boils underneath his ship, rocking it hard. The captain lashes himself to the wheel as a large wave crashes over the deck and knocks him from his feet. He stumbles back into position. It is hours until the storm abates.

The captain expects the water. He talks to it, argues with it. And though he is fierce, sometimes at night his throat catches and curses the water. Once the waves had rolled him off the edge of the ship and into the ocean. The impact of the wave had knocked his breath from him, and he struggled just below the surface. It was then that he relaxed, and felt the waves toss him about and drag him under. He closed his eyes. He was going to be one with the ocean, and warmth and brightness enveloped him. Finally, he was going home. And then pain. It started in his lungs, and as he began to asphyxiate, it pounded at his brain. His eyes shot open as he struggled to the surface. With a ragged gasp and several coughs he shouted out. A rope was passing him in the water and he grabbed hold. Though his chest was quaking in pain, he had the resolve to pull himself on board once again. He howled at the water. He could never be the water. What is the water that it should dictate his course?

But now the water was clear and sun was bright. The wind was full, and he clipped along. He was above the water, belonged above the water. He was singing out, loud and strong. He was a captain. He almost missed a tiny dot along the horizon.

A dot? A ship? He strained to look. It seemed like a sail. He turned towards it.

It was definitely a sail, and a mast, and a hull. He pulled out a telescope and peered at the ship. There was someone on it, waving frantically, jumping up and down. “Who?” He asked excitedly. He removed the glass and could see the ship clearly, and peeking back in the glass he saw the ship was headed towards him. The figure was larger, and he could see hair. “A woman,” he thought.

The other figure was indeed a woman. A captain of another small ship. Both vessels slowed as they passed alongside one another. “Hello!” She yelled excitedly, and hung off the side of the ship, reaching out her hand. He was confused at first, but smiled and reached out for her hand. And then the world slowed. He could hear his slow inhale. He could feel a bead of sweat trickle over his eyelid. He could hear the creak of his ship as it gave here and there. And he could see her. Her hair blew out softly behind her like a flag. He watched his hand reach out. He watched his fingers uncurl and he watched as her fingertips connected with his. He gasped as he felt her skin against his own. He saw her fingertips curl gently and grazed his with her nails. And time was restored. She was laughing and she called back to him, “Turn it around!”

He remembered where he was and sprung back to the wheel and aligned his ship with hers. She was throwing ropes over to him, and he began looping them around the sides of his own ship until they were bound together.

Both ships weighed anchor and the vessels slowed. Evening was approaching and he could hear her call, “Permission to come aboard!”

He sputtered, “Uh, granted! Yes, come aboard.” He was in shock as this beautiful captain set her feet upon his deck. As he could now see her closely, he could see her hair was matted, and salt covered her arms and face. But she looked strong.

“You look awful.” She pushed at him. She could see him studying her and reached her fingers through her hair where they stuck firmly. He laughed, “Goes with the job.”

“Yes it does.”

The two became acquainted and he lit a lamp and brought her down below and pulled some bread and fruit out of one of the storage barrels. They sat at a small table where she took off her shoes. “God, it’s been a while. How has the ocean been treating you?”

It was a simple question. But his mouth began to talk. He talked slowly at first, and then faster and more excited. She laughed and shared her own stories. The two became friends before the first bite of food was taken. They marveled at one another and laughed and teased. He had never had this much to say. She had earlier accepted that she might just as well be silent forever.

After dinner, they shared their voyages, and their current stores, moving back and forth between the vessels as the excitement took them. But as the night wore on, they became tired. He was sitting on a crate near the side of the boat when he saw her walking towards him, cradling something. Was it treasure. She smiled, “it’s not treasure. Well, maybe it is.”
She handed him a large book. “It’s my journal. I want you to read it.” Her face blushed and she turned away as she raised a hand to her face. “ I want someone to know who I am.” She turned back to him, “I want you—“ she smiled, “to know me.”

He trembled as he received the book. It was very thick and filled with writing. It was like his. “Come with me” he said as he stood and walked into his quarters. She followed. He reached onto a shelf and pulled his own log and gave it to her, “I think I want the same thing.”
They each read pieces and excerpt aloud to one another. He laughed hard as she read to him his misadventures. He started to explain himself and stopped, and laughed. But his laugh became a choke and then a sob and then a cry. He couldn’t help himself. He cried and took her to him and held her. Her own tears welled in her eyes and she grabbed him with all of her strength. “Oh god!” He sobbed. “I knew that--” he couldn’t finish his words.

“I know,” she said softly to him and kissed his chest and kissed his neck. She laid her head against his chest, feeling him rise with each sob. Rhythmically at first, but slower and slower as he drifted into slumber. She fell asleep against him.

When he awoke, she was not there. He jumped up. Was it a dream? He launched through the door and squinted as the bright sunlight stung him. As his vision returned he looked. Ah, her ship! It was real. He called out for her. “Down here!” she cried.

He peered overboard and saw that she was sitting on a plank lowered over the side of the ship. She had been painting unto his hull. “I want you to remember me.” She smiled at him for a long time and then turned back to her work, singing in a cheery voice.

He smiled happily and lowered himself as well. He painted designs onto her hull. “You are not the water.” He muttered to her.

“What’s that?” She turned to look at him.

He laughed, “I was saying you aren’t the water. It's this little thing I think about. What I meant is—“

“I know exactly what you meant.” She smiled deeply at him. "Thank you." She sighed,"You," she threw a small stone out into the ocean, "you aren’t the water either.”

He smiled at her recognition. She was like him. She was above the water.

They spent the rest of the day relaxing, in contact with one another, trading tips about their shipping routes. The traded some of their crates with one another – the variety of food and clothing was more than worth it. As the second day came to a close, he looked at her, a little sad.
“What is it?”

He looked away, “I have to leave. I am –“ He paused and closed his eyes “still a captain.”
She smiled, but she was disappointed. “I know. As am I.” She walked over and touched his arm, “It’s ok. Our ships still have places to see, right?”

They held one another tightly. They were not the water. They could not conform. They were kings.

They untied the boats. As the ropes loosened, the boats slowly separated. She stared at him.
He stared at her and then, with an exhale, he thrust out his hand. “I will see you again.”
She was silent. She reached out, and as they parted, their fingertips touched.

“I will see you again.” She called back to him as her ship disappeared into the night.

The Small Dark Spaces

This was an entry in my personal journal. I was coping with hunger issues (of a sort).

I have finished school for the semester. I lie back on my couch with a pillow on my chest. It is a strange thing to shed so much stress so quickly. I look over at the clock. I have sacrificed so many things. I scratch my cheek. A PhD would be rewarding, but is it enough? I need to be selective about the things I do, I need to do less. I need to not try to devour the world, but be content with some smaller piece of it. No one can have it all, right? There just isn't enough room for everything.

I wandered into my bedroom looking up at my four-poster bed. There is a circular metal tester connecting the posts, and from it are lengths of flax rope. I let them run through my fingers, closing my eyes, smelling the oil. I need this. I untie the rope from the metal, and I place it in a cabinet next to my degree.

My eyes drift over to art work I've gotten from friends. I look at some of the art I've been working on myself. My paintings which are so recently coming back to life. I need this.
No sooner have I finished piling those papers and canvases into my little cabinet than I spy my keyboard. "Ok, then." I wander over to it and power it up. I think I need this. I sit behind it and I inhale sharply, and on the exhale, I begin to play "Comptine d'un autre été". I am so uncoordinated, but I still make up for it with all of the heart I can muster. I finish and let my fingers run up between the black keys. I breathe. Oh yes, I need this.

So in it goes. Along with the music I love and along with my drums. Umpf. Things are really getting cramped in my cabinet, but I smile and whistle as I rearrange things to fit. I hear laughter from behind some books. Two beautiful daughters wave at me. "I need you both", I call to them.

"Daddy, we love you!" They call out. I laugh to myself. When I am good, I am very very good. I'm pretty sure there is more to that little saying.

A torrent of wind hits me from behind. Then paper -- lots and lots of paper. Origami figures. Everywhere. "I had forgotten about you" I called to them. I tiptoe back and forth scooping them up. They are delicate, to be sure. So I find little gaps here and there in my cabinet for each of them. Sadly, I have to let some of them go. But I am certain that I need this.

My cabinet is straining. I sit on the edge of my couch, eyeing it intensely. How am I expected to keep putting things in there? My knees are pulled up under my chin and I am hugging them. I look over at a gym bike, and I look back at the cabinet. "There just isn't any more room," I sigh to myself.

I stare for a while, and well, Hello! I notice that there are still gaps. I was certain those weren't there a moment ago. Ok then, I rearrange the things in my cabinet and behold! I have made room. Hefting the bike to my shoulder, I say softly, "I need this" and I place it into the cabinet.
I am pacing back and forth. No room. Nothing. Totally stuffed.

But wait! My writings! My pots and pans! No room! "But I need this", I say matter of factly and I turn back to the cabinet. I rearrange things. I turn my math equations on end, and use the ropes to tie back some of the strange devices I had put in there back when I was a child. "There!" I had made room, so in it goes.

Oh god. I turn around, and in the center of my living room are the designs and research of my day job. I turn back to my cabinet. I hear a click and then a clang and I spin back to see a closet door slowly creak open, and strange creatures spill out. All manner of gnome and goblin and faerie dart back and forth. I capture them in little glass boxes. I scoop each in turn and fit them into the cabinet. Beautiful, but be careful of the teeth.

Something very strange is happening. With each memory and with each talent I place into the cabinet, no sooner do I pull back my hands than I see one more small, dark space. But it isn't that. If I don't fill the hole, then the things around it settle in to occupy the gap. I need something to keep eveyrthing from shifting.

"There!" I grab my rock climbing shoes and shove them in. And a space opens up! I shove my graphic novels in, and a microphone, and video games. I continue through the night filling those holes. In the morning, I see a large hole to one side of the cabinet. It's painful to think of it all going to waste. I look around, frantic to fill it. I start to wonder, "Am I complete? Am I done filling this thing?" I need to go out and get more talents and memories. This simply won't do.
The doorbell rings. Actually, it must have been ringing for some time. I walk to foyer, somewhat defeated, panting, and pull the front door back.

Dark eyes looked up at me. A wicked smile and a soft pale hand reaches for mine. "Hello. I'm here about the ad."

"Hello" I reply. I can't take my eyes off of her. "Excuse me?"

"I was told you might have room enough for me?"

My mind was disturbed. Room, room, room. I don't have any...

I look at the cabinet. I start to laugh. "Actually, I think I have been preparing room for you all night long."

She peeks behind me and spies the cabinet. "Oh my!" She laughs even as her face flushes. "You know," she points at the cabinet, "I have one of those."

Erotic Rope Massage

I copied this right out of one of my journals. It's not much of anything, but my lifestyle might surprise many. Nothing short of all will satisfy man, right?

I had a friend curious about certain interests of mine. Namely shibari, or erotic macrame. It was simply to be an academic discussion, but, as always, as I talked more about it, I growled... I got excited, bit my lip... I think just watching my expressions change became more interesting than the words i was saying. I flipped back and forth from the point of view of the top (the one doing the loving) and the bottom (the one being loved).
This person talked about a very unpleasant experience with an ex boyfriend. He tied her up and took advantage. There were no safe words, and the whole experience felt ugly. It was an awful story. The bottom is to be caressed and made to feel exceptional, even when it is getting beaten.
When I approach a cute little pet, I do like when she shrinks away a little. Even when there is this incredible trust, it's nice to see a little adrenaline pump through her. It means that she is going to notice every... single... time... I touch her skin. Lights will flash in her head as she mentally pictures my interactions.
The ropes are soft and elegant. It is silk that is gracing the skin and supporting it and holding it in place. Next time you go to a store that sells chains, pick up a pile of delicate links and let them slide around your hands and arms. See? It doesn't hurt. Shibari is sexy. The knots are pretty, as well as functional. This beautiful ermine before me is going to look her best.
I like my pet to daydream. Don't entertain me, don't be charming or tell me how you are good at this or bad at that. It's nerves, soon you'll be caught up in the moment, and your sentences will be reduced to single words. Relax and feel the attention as i make my loops and ties. I am a therapist of sorts, and it is important that to trust me. Coos and meows are always appreciated, so long as they aren't premeditated (that's a bad kitty). I praise my loved one and pet them while I make sure everything is properly held. It is intensely exciting to explore every inch of someone while I work. Circulation isn't cut off, and really, my little friend can just let herself be carried away. I'm in control.
Now, this by itself is a tasty dish. This wonderful creature is bound with beautiful patterns, held in a cute little sweater. Oh alright... a few kisses on the throat. Oh and maybe the belly. And maybe down around... oh no you don't. If this is all of shibari you get to experience, then you still have a lot. There is still a lot of trust to make it this far.
But sometimes, after feeling those bonds hold you like a delicious embrace simultaneously hugging your entire body, you ask for a little comfort. What's that? I thought I told you to ask nicely, or not at all. Now, if you've ever held a baby or watched someone else calming their infant, quite often, it's those gentle pats on the bottom that reassure the child and put him or her back to sleep. Why would I do any less for my baby. The skin is very sensitive, so I pat it, or a drape something over it, back and forth. This works everywhere. Just close your eyes and enjoy. This is all for you. You konw... anyone can have sex with you. They get off... MAYBE you get off... they leave... but this... You are not being used. You are being possessed.
I love gooseflesh. It's like little baby birds crying for a meal. Ok birdies... I will indulge.
So the skin sometimes gets numb. You have to pat a little harder. I use my hands, but they aren't made of stone... or wood. Maybe something just a little firmer. The skin tightens, so the little pats are absorbed everywhere. You can tell the excitement is rising because the skin will blush and smile and tell you. There is no need to fear banging a poor little hand into a wall or lamp, they are secured. Just make sounds so I know you are still with me. And remember our safe word -- if I hear it, even unconvincingly, your dream ends (and so I've chosen as our safe word "antidisestablishmentarianism"... I'm teasing... you know it's "Mozart"). The ropes are firm, but not painful, and we can actually support you if you'd prefer to stand, hang (keep one toe on the ground, please), or lean over something... a nice soft pillowy chair? What a good kitty. You get a snack. Let me just towel you off a little.
So, the path from here gets narrower. Those who brave it can experience a little world in the twilight. The real world melts away behind you, and as excitement builds, feelings change... things you THOUGHT hurt now just throb. Ticklishness leaves. The skin is stronger and wants something a little more fulfilling. I will spare the details, but honestly, isn't it fun to go to work the next day with a little sting somewhere to remind you of what you experienced? (...and he walked to the wall and pulled down a strong leather strap. This will do.)

Power hungry

A journal entry of mine. I sometimes think I should pool all of my quips that I paste on the internet and bring them here. I so often want to return to them only to find them scattered to the winds.

I was having a conversation last night about dominance -- whether it is more attractive to rule the night as a rock star or to seethe with reserved power in the vein of Hannibal Lecter (minus the taxing dietary ritual... maybe.... chomp).

On the one hand, you can show overt power, screaming to horny fans, spending your free time "rehabilitating" for the next show (and Turbulence is your name). On the other hand, you are cool and reserved, unassuming but powerful (and so you are Laminar).

Let us assume that those attracted to power want real power. That, in fact, they do not counsciously dupe themselves. And let us set aside the whole problem of corruptive power. It is very hard to see beyond what your senses tell you, and so I would assume the glamour of the rock star to be more attractive--at least at first. (Let me add some "rock stars" have obviously transcended their fame and girded themselves with substance). After all, many (most?) rock stars do not dress themselves. They do not plan their venues. The do not even write their own songs. They are creations of people in another sort of power.

As for me, I enjoy being a positive influence with a dark, sharp edge. I get a rush out of control. But I've spent time on the "bottom", biding time and building strength. Eventually I felt I could do... better. "Give me those reins. Give me that crop." But being a subservient turned god, I feel compassion -- a shepherd? If I am in control, it is not for control's sake, but to deliver the right caress, the right pain, to make someone who trusts you feel great about themselves. Defend that soul against those who would brutalize their esteem. Maybe one day you will find yourself under their heel, and you will want them to step lightly (but not too lightly).

Power lies in self esteem. The ability to produce value. And to get there, you must be honest with your shortcomings. Forget those masks, they are doomed to come off one day -- humble yourself. Find those imperfections and chip away at them, or hell, counterpoint them -- there is so much delicious marble to work with. This is how a masterpiece is made. Sure, you still give control to those you trust (how else can you learn), but you always have the power to take it back. True power requires identifying fake power. True power allows us to spin gold from straw

....chomp...

Yard Sale

I was playing with my junk out in the garage when I thought, "Hey! I can sell this for money!" It was hard lugging it around for people to see, and it was long and tiring, but there it was, laid bare in the morning sun. Many people came. Then more came. Some came two or three times, looking for that special connection. Some simply went to get some money. I had bottled water on standby because after sampling my wares, many people were exhausted and sweating -- and I aim to please. Sometimes I got a nickel, but as I got more comfortable haggling, I bumped my price up to a dollar.

One older gentleman, stout and bearded, lowered his glasses to the tip of his nose and smacked his lips. "Nice balls".

"Thanks" I replied, presenting three bright red balls about the size of plums.

"What's with the straps?" He queried.

"These are gags, sir."

Silence. The man eyed me for a full minute. Then he grunted and backed away. A matronly woman ushered her kids to the car. I was losing them -- our romp was coming to an end. The man was still backing up down the sidewalk, so I gave chase, "You don't understand sir!" And I showed him, "These go around your mouth! Sir! Don't run!"

I guess he did understand what I was saying after all. Oh well, some people are just plain odd. But, I guess next time my mother asks for help selling gramma's stuff, I'll politely refuse.

(I miss gramma's gnomes -- I think I'll untie one of them.)

Birthday-jitsu

(I wrote this to a friend of mine as an intimate private message, but I thought it was too funny/WTFish to tuck away into history, so here it is...)

"Everyone hide! Here she comes!"

Everyone scrambled into position, snickering with excitement. Some were tucked behind couches, some covered with curtains. One man pretended to be a lamp, balancing a shade on his head.

A key could be heard grinding its way into the lock. The knob jiggled, and a muffled expletive followed. The key receded and another key found its way. This time it felt complete, and with a solid click, the knob turned.

One of the women behind the largest couch was stifling a sneeze. Her friend reached out grinning and itched her nose for her.

The door cracked open and the smell of booze and wet cigarettes poured in and permeated the room. One of the older men winced and peered through one eye at his cohort across the way, who smiled meekly and shrugged.

Karen set one foot through the doorway. The heel of her shoe was broken and her other foot was completely bare. She did not hang her coat, but rather threw it limply at the wall near where a coatrack might have been.  She doubled over coughing.  As she wiped drool, she called out to no one in particular, "Happy goddam birthday!"

No one moved.

Karen proceeded through the room, oblivious of its occupants and pulled at an imaginary cord hanging from a stunned, shivering man. No light came on, but the man gave a meek "click" soind, and this seemed to satisfy Karen just fine. She ambled into the kitchen singing random syllables, pulled open the fridge, and stood, enjoying the cool air. "Alright, Karen." She commanded herself, "Let's get it together." Leaving the cooler door ajar, she walked into her bedroom, kicking off her remaining shoe as she entered.

"What the hell do we do?" Asked one of the heftier guests pretending to be a coffee table.

"I don't know. I thought I knew her better." Responded a very confused young women crouched behind a large vase. "Wait for her to pass out.  We'll just leave the cake and the card."

"Shhh" Hushed a woman, "She's coming back."

Karen had reentered the front room. Only she was no longer dressed in her soiled school marm outfit. She was clad in black latex, head to foot. She was rubbing her eyes as she pressed several places on the foyer wall. A painting slid to one side as a display case slid forward. Whips, gadgets, spikes, and guns were exposed. She collected her weapons and donned her night vision goggles. She laughed to herself, "Enough of this."

She pulled a hypodermic needle from a front pocket and pulled the cap off with her teeth.  She the needle up and into her neck with the an intense calmness. Sobriety poured through her limbs almost instantly. She gasped and breathed deep.  With an exhale, she kicked open the front door, looked into the night, and slid ruby goggles over her eyes. She marched out into the open air and let the door close behind her.

The calmness was broken with the crack of a whip and a rapidly retreating voice, "Fear me, Night!"

Then nothing.

After a minute of astonished silence, one young voice called out in an excited whisper, "That" he paused for effect, "was f***ing awesome!"

God From the Earth Reborn

This is a small excerpt that I had dropped from a story I wrote (and rewrote and rewrote) long ago. It's from an earlier copy as almost all of my writings were lost. I was young, and my writing style was not yet matured. I had felt that this character was a bit too vicious and took the interest away from the main characters. I cleaned it up a little in order to post here. If you think this story is about letting the "devil" loose on the world, you missed the point (which is actually understandable since the context is missing).

The God of the Earth faced two angels. He stared through bars of a prison cell, more flame than metal, fluid and angry. He paced back and forth, licking his lips, studying one angel and then the other. Both were standing at attention and looking in the distance, keeping their expressions emotionless. The Prince smiled.

"How is slavery, these days?" He stopping before one, surveying him squarely from head to toe.

"It is not slavery to serve by choice. The great Host loves us." Although angels appears timeless to mortals, they were not. They were created during the first darkness, but not at the same time and not for the same purposes. And the one that now spoke was the younger, and its features more feminine. Though its composure was kept, the outrage was there.

"Oh I'm aware of the choice. Undoubtedly, you are obedient puppies. You never question authority do you?" The Prince snorted. "Whether it is through fear or sheer ignorance I do not know, but it doesn't matter." He relaxed his pose, "What are your names, little ones?"

The young one flinched and opened his mouth, but the older squelched him, "I am called Berial, and this is Lazril, Defiler. We are many. Our strength doubles yours." Berial returned the Prince's amused stare, countering him, "Your underhandedness curses you still. You will never again will you darken our Master's house."

"Spare me." the Prince laughed, "If I darken his house, it will be to light it up. It will be razed to ash."

Lazril quipped, "You will be the one burning."

"You may be right, infant. But pain is part of being alive. Pain is struggling through adversity. It tells me that I have the courage to make those hard decisions. Pain is your enemy, not mine."

"..and the sinners of this world will join you in your eternal torment." The elder chided. "Enjoy your passion, for your pain will be fiercest of all."

"And who exactly delivers this punishment? Obviously it is not I. I who have opposed Him since I was granted knowledge would hardly fall in line and obey. It cannot be my children who join me for disobeying. No, unless your holiest brethren carry out the task themselves, there will be no one to punish me. And with every soul you send me, I have one more soldier, armed with the knowledge to tear your wings from your bodies." The Prince flared, "I look into your eyes, and I see cattle, ignorant and blinking. Your fire has long been snuffed out if it was ever there at all."

Berial shook his head, "Why go this way?" He showed pain, "Why? Why would you choose an eternity so hard, when you could simply obey and be in our fold? Of what use is knowledge if it brings only pain?"

The Prince frowned, "That sentiment is what imprisons you. To assume that what is easy is what is right." The Prince maintained control, but his teeth grinded. "You would turn in your fellow angels to curry favor with that Tyrant? Promote hate, and ignorance? Provide men with logic and then require that they do the illogical. Carressing with one hand while murdering with the other. Never have atrocities been done so cheerfully as in your Master's name." He was in a fervor, "Yes, you conceited sheep. It is indeed a hard thing to do what it right. I do not blame you for not following, but do not detract from the importance of my example."

"I wonder," The Prince looked at his hands and flexed them, "how you might behave if there was no 'eternal reward'. If your Master ordered you to your obliteration, or to some eternal torture, would you be so quick to take up the charge?"

"He would never require such a sacrif-"

"But what if he did!" The Prince enunciated each syllable slowly and fiercly. "Would you still consider your actions reighteous? You are so quick to twist the blade in me. Pointing out my punishment, as if that alone determined right from wrong." He let out a sigh. "I have accepted my fate. I cannot sit idly by and not question, whatever my fate. Religious wars are declared in that sheep-herders name. Cowardice and hate spewed across his gardens, and the more pious the snake, the more venomous the poison. That world--" He looked up, "You sit by and watch them scrap it out in their great cock-fight. You let each feel you favor them alone. But the health of the roots can be seen in the fruit, " He looked back at the two angels, both staring at him, "and I'm afraid there is some very rotten fruit above."

Berial was shaken. "You are too angry, Defiler. You are not thinking straight. We each have a duty, and we may not understand--"

Lazril trembled. "I hate you."

The Prince smiled warmly at Lazril, "I know you do. And given the circumstances, I can hardly blame you. The foundations underneath you are collapsing, and the fruit of knowledge has taken hold. " He made a motion to touch Lazril, but stopped short of the bars, "I fight and bicker because I have the right to fight and bicker. My sword is tempered and it is very sharp. Even had it not come to this, I would gladly fall again."

Berial cried, "You are disloyal! You did not uphold your duty. Your time is short. The great El will destroy you!" He turned to Heaven shaking his fists, "Why do you let him live?"

"Ah," The Prince beamed at Berial, "He's not that kind of God. These prisons are all he musters." The Prince walked to a wall and retrieved a large red cloak. "You are half right though." He threw the cloak over his sholder and clasped it around his neck, "my time is short. And so I must send a message."

"You will not!" Berial cried, pulling Lazril next to him as he advanced, "This is your prison! You cannot leave! You can never leave!"

"Oh but I can." He flicked his hand and drew a symbol in the air. An iron gate appeared, and opened, revealing a stairway up from the Abyss. "When making threats, first ascertain on which side of the bars you stand. But Fret not, for I accept God's gift. I will put this prison to good use."

"You can't leave us! God will destroy you! Vengeance! Vengeance!"

The Prince smiled. "Great things await, little puppies. He may be the Alpha," He flicked his eyes upwards and then back at the anguished pair before turning to leave. He called over his shoulder, "I will always be the Omega".

As the gate closed behind him, flames poured into the prison like water, engulfing the messengers. Berial and Lazril writhed and screamed, but did not expire.

Love in the Sack

I was asked to write a love story. I'm already writing a love story! I would feel like I was cheating on the other lovers. But maybe they could just be friends. I had one hour to complete this. It was a self imposed time limit. My problem is that I can rewrite forever, and while the prose might seem nice, the returns diminish and so I am training myself to write and move on -- write and move on. I wrote once and then I did a once-over for grammar and spelling, and a wince to think of all the "fat" that must be left behind.

Matthew smiled as he slowly stirred from slumber, fixed tightly in a fetal position. He reached for the coolness of his pillows, but his knuckles pushed against hard burlap. Burlap? His fingers explored further, and his smile faded.

He tried to stretch, but the covers bound him tightly – not so much like a blanket, but rather –

Matthew's eyes popped open. Darkness. He tried to sit up, but the ground was unsteady. He was not in bed. He was trapped, and if his senses told him correctly, he was suspended in a burlap sack. Nonsense.

He reoriented himself and explored the inky black. He was completely surrounded by this material. He was in a sack. He reached upwards where the sack must be tied and felt a cool ring, large enough that he could slip through it a single hand. No breeze, but he could feel cords tied to the ring, pulled taught by his weight.

"Hello?" He cried out. "Can anyone here me? Where am I?"

Nothing. No echo. The only sounds were the wrenching of long ropes twisting.

"Hello? Please, who are you?" He assumed that he was captive. An unexpected whimper escaped, but he stifled it. He could get out of this. He fingered the material of his prison for some imperfection, some way to tear it open. Then he stopped. "How far above the ground am I? " He thought to himself. The lack of echo and sound told him that wherever he was, it was big and it was open. And it was silent. A warehouse perhaps?

"Ok, Matt – you can figure this out."

The sweat was very heavy on Matthew's skin, and he was hungry. But with hunger came some desperation, and Matthew started to shift his weight, back and forth. At first nothing. Slowly, however, momentum was imparted into the woven cage. The ropes groaned and the bag swayed. A little more each time until the it reached a pendulous rocking as terrifying as it was exhilarating. But there were neither walls nor obstacles of any kind. The excitement of this experiment passed, and gradually the sack slowed. Matthews eyes welled up in a flare of madness and he sucked in as much air as he could. Then he screamed. It was loud and painful and turned from frustration into a laughter into a hacking cough. Then some desperate animal noises and then sobs.

"Hello!" Matthew cried once more, and then went silent.

Some uncountable amount of time passed, and Matthew shook awake. "I was sleeping?" He said to himself. Had it been minutes? Hours? His stomach growled for food and his bedclothes were soaked thoroughly from sweat.

A female voice called out, "Is anyone there?"

Matthew realized that he had been awakened by a voice not his own. He struggled to reposition himself, listening out into the void. Was it real?

"Please, someone answer me!"

It was a sobbing, British accent.

"I hear you!" Called Matthew excitedly. "Yes, yes, I hear you!"

"Oh! Who are you? Why am I here?"

"I'm certain I do not know. I was going to --"

"I've been calling out for hours. Where have you been? What is this place?"

"Miss, please. Hours you say?" Had he been sleeping that long? How did he not hear her being brought in?

"At least! Where am I?"

"Well, we are suspended in sacks in a large empty room, as much as I can tell. I tried to swing myself but there seem to be no walls."

"Hanging? In sacks? That's absurd. Who would want to do that to us?"

"Someone's sick idea of a joke, I suppose. I haven't heard a soul or sound since I was first brought in."

"Well I hope they bring food soon. I'm starving!" Matthew realized that he had not eaten for some time. Was it days? Weeks?

"Me either," he replied. "I must have been taken from my bed. I have not eaten for at least a day, maybe more. I'm Matthew, by the way."

"Anna, here. I'm Anna. I found some kind of ring with cords tied to it. It seems that I could untie a cord." Untie the cord. What if there was no floor?

"No! You don't know how far you might fall. It could be fatal!" Matthew called out to her.

She silently acquiesced. Instead she turned her attention to him. "So, Matthew, is it? Do you have a family?"

"No. A wife. Well, once I had a wife."

"I'm sorry, I – "

"Don't be. Divorced. I was young. I still have my dad."

She smiled, "I have a little girl. Divorced as well. Maybe this place is a little Hell made for us." She chuckled, "I live near my sister. My parents are further North, I don't see them often."

"I see"

Matthew and Anna exchanged information about themselves, passing the time. And passing more time. They sang songs together and they traded jokes and generally made the best of it. But as the time grew long, their moods turned sour.

"I am so hungry, Matthew." Anna started kicking as best she could, frustrated and lashing out. They both started hurling insults at their captors. But soon this game became dry.

"Anna, your family sounds nice. I'm sure they will come looking for you."

Anna didn't say anything. "Matthew." She became serious for a moment.

"Yes, Anna."

"I think we've been left here to die."

Matthew bit his lip. Shouldn't they already be dead? He realized that his sweat kept coming, and he stayed hungry, and he hadn't had to relieve himself since he first came here.

"What would be the point of that?" He replied. "There is always a reason. This certainly is a large room to go completely unnoticed." Matthew went back to singing "Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall."

Anna pouted to herself. She pulled at her long hair and tried to stare through the darkness at it. She looked up at the top of the sack. She couldn't see it, but those cords were there all the same. How far a drop could it be. Then she remembered.

"Matthew!" She yelled. "I'm removing an earring." She did this pinched it between her thumb and forefinger, and lifted it up past the metal ring. "I'm going to throw it."

"…sixty-seven bottles of beer… What? You have?" Matthew knew what this meant. "Ok, yes, I'll listen as well."

"Ok, here goes." She tossed it as best she could.

They both listened. They both continued to listen. "Did you throw it yet?" Matt asked.

"Of course! Maybe the room is carpeted I'm throwing the second." She removed her second earring and prepared to hurl it.

"Wait!" Matthew called out. "Can you maybe cut a little hole in the side of your sack? Maybe there is a light somewhere."

"Matthew, Matthew. Why are you so smart?" Anna sounded happy, at least there was a plan. Scraping the side of the sack with the post of the earring, she grew excited, "It's working!" A tear was forming.

"Good! Good! Keep at it!" Matthew encouraged. And then there was a terrible noise. Tearing fabric and a little shriek.

"Matthew! My sack! The tear! It just grew bigger." This was an understatement. The material of the sack was deceptive. It was in fact quite fragile, and the small tear had widened considerably under her weight. She fell into the hole that had been created and grabbed at the other side of the sack, securing her footing within her deteriorating prison.

"Are you ok?"

Anna wasn't sure, the tear was still ripping slowly, but if she held tightly, she seemed to be able to remain in the sack. "This isn't good, that's for sure." She weakly joked. "Matthew, I am able to look through the tear. I don't see anything. It's very dark in here. Oh my god, Matthew, I can see—" The tear tore straight up to the ring. Anna screamed, "Matthew! Oh my god!"

"What is it? Anna, speak to me!"

"Oh my god!" Anna was no longer held in the bag, but was curling her small frame around the rags that remained of it. She was crying and sobbing. "I'm hanging onto the outside! I can't hold on forever!"

"Anna, reach up and grab the ring. You have to pull yourself up! You can do it, honey! Please don't give up."

Anna loosed one hand and reached up towards the ring. "I think I—"

All Matthew heard was a quick rip and then a scream. His body went tense as he heard that scream. It didn't stop with a thud. It didn't stop at all. It just trailed off into nothing. Adrenaline and sickness coursed through his body.

He curled up into a fetal position and let the sobs rack his body. When he could not cry any longer, he feebly whispered his little song.

"Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall.."