If you’re interested, please submit your RSVP by Thursday, February 23, 11:59 p.m. The discussion will start on the 24th at 10:00 a.m.

Hope to “see” you there!

A translucent rain begins to fall around me. It is the souls of the humans who had lived with me on Earth. Drenching and, at the same time, invigorating, the fluid splashes on the pocked rocks around me. The fluid runs down the barren landscape of Hell. I look around, spotting minor demons running around like kids, some with vile, foot-long tongues elongated catching the downpour. A lot of bad people are dying. They are all coming to hell. I am not sure if it was the Russians or the Iranians or the Americans, but it looks like someone back on Earth had finally decided to fuck it all up. The population of 8 billion would plummet towards less than a few hundred thousand, and perhaps those too might die in the aftermath. But, thanks to human stupidity and the hard work of my brothers and sisters over the millennia, most of that would be heading in this direction.

Earth was once a minor battleground of the war between Heaven and Hell. True, it started there, but it had moved to far larger and more valuable planets and planes of existence. Over 2000 years ago, Christ Himself had made some self-serving gesture and had rallied a nice little following for Himself, but that momentum had been turned back quite nicely. Other inspired individuals had come forth, both before and after that, from Bedouin camps and from lonely bushes, but their initiatives had been corrupted even more easily. It was easy pickings to corrupt this race of glorified apes. Easy, because at the heart of it, glorified or not, they were still apes, vicious packs of imitators and phonies full of lust and fear who could deny their nature for only short amounts of time. Once nuclear weapons were in their hands, it was a matter of time before one of them accidentally eradicated their own specie along with the rest of the biosphere.

I had worked against beings far more noble and true to God’s will and found ways of breaking them. But despite the efforts of both Heaven and Hell, the humans had condemned themselves. And they had now done it so spectacularly! As I grow more attuned to my form, I see the fires of Hell leap and blaze with the suffering that now was feeding it. Souls continue to fall like a cloudburst of gasoline, causing the conflagration to erupt on every circle of Hell.

A deep roar cuts through my narrative—my apologies. It seems The Master of Hell, one who was my brother, but now is so much more, is pleased. Lucifer’s presence expands, touching all of his kin in Hell. It begins feeding off the malice and spirit that they, in turn, are harvesting from the new souls. His presence is now with me.

“Masopher,” he whispers, like a long-lost lover. Unlike the baelrog who had first accosted me, Lucifer’s presence is sinuous, seductive. “I thought you were gone forever.” He has already read my mind and the mind of the baelrog, so I do not need to retell my story of imprisonment.

“When you slew the giant and were set upon, I assumed they would have destroyed you,” he continues. “Who knew that they were so vindictive?” Lucifer titters, laughing at his own joke.

Reincarnation. It was called many things in Earth’s theology. Once bound to the planet, souls tended to move from life to life in a nearly eternal cycle. Once a soul had picked up a momentum of successively “good” lives, it sometimes broke the cycle and escaped into Heaven to become a part of a celestial body, Nirvana. But if the soul lost energetic momentum, by becoming weary with too many “evil” or painful lives, it collapsed into Hell, where the demons living there pounced upon it and subjected it to torture and devices meant to extract its essence and energy. It was a bit like juicing an orange, I suppose. This fed and empowered the djinn and the machines of Hell, which were used to assault heavens forces. Earth had become a profitable planet in the past hundred or so years as more and more of its spirit energy was diverted to hell. It was a good investment.

My curse, as inflicted by the forces of Heaven, had shoved my essence into the “spirit cycle” of earth. An entity of my power should have been thrown right out at the very first death and I should have been catapulted straight toward Heaven to get struck down by the guardians there, but Lucifer now guesses that at each death, an intervention had probably redirected me back into another creature. I was forcibly reincarnated each time my host died, given another shackle of flesh to keep my soul bound and manacled. Surprisingly, my very last incarnation was one of the repulsive man/apes that had started this whole battle. Not the most sentient creature on the planet, but definitely the most dangerous. Had I realized which side I was on, or even paid more attention to theology, then I might have gotten into the priesthood or become a mullah, where I could have done some real damage. Perhaps that is where some of my fellow “disappeared” demons had ended up. It would explain the total shit that the humans had been teaching each other in the name of God. Lucifer reads my mind and confirms that he hadn’t found any other of our kin who had been punished in the same way I had.

He commends me on the good job I had done as a banker, though. Almost all the people that I had fucked over as Marcus Pringle were already destined for Hell or a lower karmic life-form anyway, but I had made hundreds more miserable and had done my bit to shit all over the Western economy. Who knows? Maybe even the war now exterminating Earth’s denizens could be traced back to me and the other fuckers who helped turn global finance into a giant ponzi scheme.

Lucifer’s presence chuckles again and almost seems to pat me on the head like a poodle that had performed a new trick. Earth has now completely fallen, and with the power we have gained from its souls, we would be powerful enough to target new planets. Not a lot had changed since I was imprisoned. Two hundred or more years of flesh were a mere fraction of my existence. If Earth had lasted to its 6-billion-year expiry date, that would have been quite inconvenient, but thanks to the nuclear holocaust, I had been sprung from my prison earlier.

Look out for the third instalment next month.

This was my contribution–the tenth instalment–to a collective story for an online writers’ circle that I was a part of, before it became defunct. I recently revised the piece.

“Hello, Grace.”

Sebastian’s voice sent a trickle of fear shimmying down her spine. She shrank away from him to the furthest corner of the car’s back seat, wishing that she could somehow dissolve into the leather upholstery.

“I missed you,” he continued in that silky tone, his eyes unfathomable as he peeled off his gloves. Without warning, he leaned towards her, his mouth mere inches away from her own, his hands moving, as if in slow motion, toward her neck.

A scream lodged in her throat, terror squeezing every iota of rational thought from her mind. Her nails scratched at the door, trying to find the button release. Its ominous click sounded like a death knell over the hum of the engine. She glimpsed Armand’s baleful glance in the rear-view mirror before he started to drive.

Tenderly, Sebastian brushed her hair to the sides of her face. His breath fanned the wisps of hair at her temples. Strong fingers clasped her left hand. “You forgot this,” he murmured. Glancing down, she watched as he slid her wedding ring on her third finger and kissed it. “Till death do us part, remember?” he said, shifting to his original position.

She stared unseeingly at the scenery rushing by. The memory of Armand firing the gun, of Jack crumpling to a heap, the empty stare in his eyes, haunted her. Feeling the weight of Sebastian’s gaze, she turned to see him watching her. Closely, like a hawk. Her mind tried to wrap around the fact that this monster, who had ordered Armand to shoot her friend so ruthlessly, was the same man who had won her heart and fathered their children.

She turned her gaze to the scenery outside her window, and realized, with a start, that the surroundings were familiar. Several children swarmed the park grounds, several metres away from the road, some soaring into the air on swings, others on the jungle gym, all under the watchful gazes of their mothers or nannies. Often, she had taken her children there to gather her scattered thoughts while they played. Her beloved Anna and Giovanni came into view. She smiled as they squealed with delight when they saw their friends. Julia, their nanny, walked behind them, talking to another nanny.

She noticed that Armand was cruising, and that there was no traffic in this section of the neighbourhood.

“Why are we here?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

“So you can have one last look at Anna and Gio,” Sebastian said. “See, I’m not completely heartless,” as she gaped at him. “It’s a pity it had to come to this, Grace. Unfortunately, your services are no longer required.”

That was when she found the strength to lash out at him, fury in her fists. Blood sprang to the surface as her nails raked his face. Before he could recover, she slammed her fist between his legs, and felt a moment’s satisfaction as he doubled over, grunting in pain. Too late, Armand’s head swiveled around at the commotion behind him. She sprang at him like a feral cat, digging her nails into his eye. He howled, momentarily lost control of the car, and accelerated. Adrenaline galvanized her limbs, made her launch toward the row of buttons on Armand’s side of the door and hit the door release control. Blindly, he grabbed for her arm with one hand, while trying to avoid hitting the curb, but she shrugged it off, and hit the button on her side of the door. She felt the door give beneath her weight, prepared herself for the impact with the rushing ground. Instead, she felt her head jerk back as Sebastian gripped a handful of her hair, clamped her against him, and pulled the door shut.

“Bitch!” Armand said, holding his face with one hand, as he righted the car with the other. “Need any help around there?”

“Just drive,” Sebastian said.

She wasn’t quite sure how much time had elapsed before the car slowed again, this time to a stop. The hectic pace of the city had been left behind, giving way to blue-green hills that walled the area like sentinels. The air was sharp, clean, fresh. A carpet of burnished gold, tangerine, and olive-green leaves crunched beneath her shoes, as Sebastian pulled her out of the vehicle and led her to the entrance of a cottage, Armand bringing up the rear.

Inside, the rustic warmth and tasteful furnishings were lost on her as they stood in the hallway, waiting. The strains of someone playing a cello wafted to them.

“Asia,” Armand called out. “We’re here.”

The music ended abruptly, the ensuing silence broken by the click of heels against the hardwood floor. A woman emerged, statuesque in a white, sleeveless, cowl-neck sweater, wine-red leather pants and boots. Her dark skin glowed in contrast; her baldness enhanced stunning features. To say that she was gorgeous was an understatement. Grace felt insipid in comparison.

Asia surveyed the men’s injuries, and then looked at her with renewed interest, an eyebrow arched. She spoke in a foreign language to Sebastian, who replied in the same language. Asia’s eyes ran over her again, this time insolently.

Sebastian released her and strode over to Asia. “I want you to watch her until we return,” he said.

“How long will you both be gone?”

“Not long. I just have some loose ends to tie up.”

With his hand resting on the small of Asia’s back, they walked a few steps into an adjoining sitting room, and spoke in hushed tones. She watched as Sebastian reached into his jacket, pulled out a gun and handed it to Asia.

Armand’s chuckle made her realise that he had moved closer and was scrutinising her. “She’s not to be messed with, that one,” he said. “That little stunt you pulled back there won’t work with her. She’ll cut your heart out before you know it.” He laughed, harder this time.

She ignored him, her mind struggling to conjure up a memory. Something about Sebastian’s and Asia’s familiarity with each other nagged at her. Something else was stirring in her subconscious, like the whisper of the changing leaves outside being rustled by the October breeze. Then, like the silent arrival of dawn, a certain scene surfaced. The jewellery store. Sebastian and an unfamiliar woman leaving a restaurant. The limousine with the unrecognizable license plates and strange markings. The woman. Asia!

She gasped. Asia turned her head to look at her, and smiled. But her eyes were ice.

Photo Credit: iamwriterhearmeroar.blogspot.com

Recently, I spoke with a relative, with the intention of gleaning factual information for my book. I was taken aback when she assumed that I was writing about her and her husband, for I had made no such statement. Before I had even picked my jaw up off the floor, she said, “No, don’t write about LMNOP. You should write about ABC instead”, ending her speech with “because we don’t believe in fairy tales.”

I almost chewed my tongue off in a supreme effort to not answer her the way I was tempted to. Mind you, she doesn’t know what my book is about, because I didn’t share anything about it, except for one tiny bit of information about the main character. So, it was rather mind-boggling how that molehill of information somehow mutated into Mount Kilimanjaro. Even curiouser and curiouser was her implication that since I was writing fiction, it wasn’t grounded in reality. It was just a “fairy tale”. So I got to thinking about this topic of fantasy and why some folks are adamant in their dislike, or even disdain, of it.

Conversations I’ve had or just listened to about this matter predictably involve someone telling me (somehow folks have a penchant for doing that): “You shouldn’t watch or read or listen to so-and-so. It’s demonic.” Or, “How could you like that? You’re morbid.” And, the crowd favourite, “It’s not real.” Lots of labels and opinions usually fly around like a plague of locusts then. In most cases, these folks haven’t even read or watched so-and-so. They merely regurgitate what someone else spouted. At those times, it seems to me that the fantasy genre is somewhat like a person who never quite fits in, or is shunned because he or she doesn’t fit into someone’s box.

People are entitled to their opinions, preferences, and prerogatives. That’s the wonderful thing about freedom of choice. But it becomes an elephant of an entirely different colour when folks seek to impose their wills on others, or try to ram their opinions down the throats of others, or worse, bash and trash the diverse creators of that genre and their works. It’s quite all right to not like the fantasy genre. Just don’t expect others to feel the way one does. Lest anyone thinks that I’m biased toward the genre and all its sub-classes, while it has a special place in my heart, I’m actually more keen about mysteries and suspense/thrillers for fiction reading.

So, I will remain forever fascinated with the secret world of imagination that colours, not only the landscape of fantasy, but also every creative work. Without apology, my inner child is alive and ever playful, and I will keep her that way, for she is my muse. Know this, though. My eyes are such that, in the midst of all the fantastic, even gothic tales, I see overarching themes such as friendship, loyalty, courage, selflessness, the power of love, and the transformation of flawed characters into perfectly imperfect heroes. That, for me, is real and true.

What do you see?

P.S. I didn’t get the information I wanted. Turns out that I won’t need it at this time.

TITLE: THE GENIE

Chapter 1, Part 1: The Beginning

I remember now. I am Djinn(1). I am a demon.

As the tidal wave of flames rushing towards me engulfs the city I thought I knew, the memories are finally coming back. I stare out of my room towards the oncoming fire, which takes up the whole horizon. My eyes dilate with the light of the nuclear explosion and my vision gets dark as the nerves in my eyes overload and burn out from the sheer amount of energy pouring into them. The life that flashes before me isn’t the life of Marcus Pringle, investment banker. I don’t remember growing up in Dorset, England to a mixed race couple. I don’t remember getting into Cambridge. I don’t remember the years of privilege and debauchery, or even my recent fucking over of several hundred clients. I don’t remember my partner and I betting against the advice that we gave them and pocket 90 million pounds. That life was a ridiculous farce meant to hide my true nature.

But I do remember the Eternal War (2). I remember how it started, when one of my “brothers” gave the first of the naked apes the gift of forbidden knowledge. I remember the wrath of Heaven and the desolation of Hell. I remember he who stood tall among us and the pain that drove his thirst for revenge. I remember the hundreds of years of battles and my own victory over my “father”. I remember his brothers and the retribution they took against me. I remember being incarnated as a goat, and an ox and a roach and then I remember being born as the very thing, which I despised most in this Universe: A damn human!

The glass before me shatters with the shock wave and then the nuclear fire envelops me. The plush apartment around me begins to violently disintegrate. The man who I was evaporates, my fluid parts flying away slightly before my more solid parts do. It is painless, my brain disappears before the sensations get to it. My unlocked, supernatural senses reach out and I hear the screams of the dying as they too face their personal Armageddon.

I am finally back in Hell when I open my eyes. These are not the green eyes that I wore as a fragile sentient hominid but my true eyes: The pale, luminescent, eternally scheming eyes of a demon. The screams too are replaced by other screams. Not the pain of those dying in the doomed city, but the guttural screams of the damned, baying in terror and rage as they suffer beneath the whips and wiles of the masters of Hell. Few are as lucky as I, for I was and have always been a jailor, while they are now prisoners of the pit.

A demonic mind reaches out to mine, brutally questioning, crushingly searching.

“Who are you?” it demands.

I search for the answer. Now the memories of the man return to me. But no, that was not me. I am Djinn. I refused to bow before Adam. I followed Lucifer into battle against the arrogance of Heaven. I was banished to Hell. I haunted earth for a thousand years. I was cursed by flesh and now I am free.

I am Masopher. I reply, in Enochian (3), the divine language of angels. I was imprisoned in Gilgul Ha Neshamot (4), but now I have returned to true spirit.

The questioning spirit presses hard, searching for lies in my speech. Some djinn would do nothing but lie and even the angels of Heaven were able to twist the truth. The overbearing presence lifts, as the guardian releases me.

“Welcome back, brother,” it hisses, satisfied. “Just in time for a brand new influx.” The presence whisks away, and I begin to see even more.

My form is still humanoid, disgustingly wingless for some reason. My great horns have returned and I have grown far larger than a human, but I remain bipedal and limited. The immense power that has held me captive, on the other hand, is actually nothing more than a fraction of the attention of a massive eight-limbed creature, whose physical form is still busy torturing a cauldron of souls. His spirit is so great that he is able to seek me out and entrap me with a mere tendril of his thoughts, while maintaining his sadistic duty. He turns his actual head to regard me, as he presses his large trident into the victims beneath him. His grinning maw, far more grotesque than mine, repeats what his tendril presence just told me.

“Welcome back, brother.”

1. Djinn: Djinn, Jinn, Genie,(Latin genius) are from Arabic folklore and are household guardian spirits. They are one of the three sentient creations of God/Allah and can be good, evil, or neutrally benevolent. In ancient Rome, genius inspired and guided artisans to create great works.

2. Eternal War: One of the names for the great controversy between God and the forces of hell.

3. Enochian: The divine language of angels.

4. Gilgul Ha Neshamot: The reincarnation of souls, as described by Kabbalistic concepts.

Look out for the second instalment next month.


Filed under: Fiction Tagged: Eastern theology, European theology, Fantasy, Leon Gunning, Middle-Eastern theology ]]> https://nadineunscripted.wordpress.com/2012/01/30/guest-writer-leon-gunning/feed/ 0 nadinedrea