Snapshots

Sometimes, I like to do a sketch; like a snapshot into someone's life. I don't know what happened before it, and I don't know what's going to happen after. I probably never will, but it's not important. I like showing moments that bring out people's personalities. I think I would be friends with these two...

>i<

___________________________________________________________________

At first, he didn’t see her when he came into the room. He was disheveled, like he’d been up all night again with the comics and a cold cup of coffee. His tie was undone, and his curly hair rumpled oddly off to one side.

She knew he was in the room even before she saw him.

“Long night?” she asked, not turning around.  He started, and nearly dropped his paper. He could tell from her voice that her eyebrows were raised.

“Dockets,” he mumbled.

She smiled to herself. She knew it had been the comics. She pulled her knees up to her chest and surveyed the desk before her; it lie strewn with papers and notes, scrawled unintelligibly on scraps of things. She had been systematically transferring the scribbles to a black binder in a neat, precise hand.

It was no use telling him that a good lawyer has to keep clear records. If law school couldn’t get that through his head, then his sister certainly had no hope.

“Oh God there’s coffee?” he asked suddenly, lunging at the porcelain mug on the desk.

“There was coffee,” she replied, not looking up. “I’ve been up for nearly an hour.”

“Well, so have I,” he returned crossly. “And—and shouldn’t you get dressed? A secretary shouldn’t wear….well…that….” He gestured vaguely in her general direction.

She looked down at herself. “There’s nothing wrong with my bathrobe…it’s comfortable. More comfortable than a suit and tie and cold coffee on the couch, probably….”

He took the paper from under his arm and tossed it on the desk.

“Work…” he said indistinctly.

She smiled, and turned back to the desk. “Remember,” she said, fingering the papers, “Remember, after they died…you said you wanted to learn to read. You said you wanted to be smart, so you could go to school and we would never have to live anywhere with faulty electric ever again…no fires, no being afraid….So I taught you. Remember how I taught you? Late at night, with the flashlight and the newspaper…you would trace the letters with your pencil, and I would tell you what their names and sounds were.”

She swiveled in the desk chair, and brought her feet down to the floor. She looked at him, and smiled. “Well, you did it. And now you’re a lawyer…and a damn good one at that; if not a little…” she cast her eyes around the well-lit room, “…disorganized. And—“ she picked up the folded newspaper he had tossed on the desk and shook it open; a section of comics fell from the middle and fluttered to the floor; “—you still trace your letters.”

His hand darted out and clumsily snatched the paper from hers, crumpling it badly. He stuffed the balled mess back under his arm, as if it had been something as normal as an umbrella. “I’m going to the office.”

He wasn’t upset; he had just never counted on having a second mother after the first one.

She smiled again, and turned back to the desk. “Don’t forget to shower first, love,” she called. “I’ll have dinner ready at eight.”

She bent, and picked up the fallen section of the Times. She smoothed and folded it neatly, and then paused. 

Her finger hovered over a portion of the page, and then descended and traced, ever so lightly, the words of Calvin and his buddy Hobbes. The graphite scorings over the letters, which followed the script in imperfect duplication, were deep. She knew the coffee table in the den was now forever inscribed with the banter of the two childhood playmates.

She sat back in the chair, her eyes far away, and smiled.  

A Long Time Coming...

So I've been working on something I might actually finish this time [*gasp!*].
I don't like posting things before they're done, but I think if I post this in segments, it will force me to actually complete it some day. This is the first chapter of the short story I'm working on. I'm still playing with the title; it's more for my own personal amusement that arises from my marriage than anything else. Little everyday things that happen that remind me of something, and make me smile, get woven in here and there.
I don't think it's too hard to see who the main character is. Or who wishes she could be what the main character is.
Anyway, I digress.

Here it is.

>i<

__________________________________________________________

 1

Runaway

            Alessya found herself in the peculiar position of wishing herself about fifty pounds heavier, and a good deal stenchier—if that was even a word.

The market was no place for a woman—she had only been told so half a dozen times by large rather sour-smelling persons who were themselves decidedly not female—before she had actually begun to believe it. Which is why at this moment she wished that the man’s cloak and tunic that she had just stolen (which brings us to the aside that she was quite pleased with her pinching skills—though of course she knew weren’t up to par with, say, Ali Baba’s) were a better fit, and that her already deep, husky voice were deeper and huskier yet.

            No matter.

            Mud! What she lacked in weight and timbre she would make up for in filth.

            Men always seemed to be dusty in the marketplace. “I shouldn’t wonder if they roll in it,” Aless muttered. Luckily, there seemed to be a good supply of prime mud behind the local tannery. And aside from the fact that the place smelled even worse than burned split pea soup—which smells exceptionally awful without being burned—it seemed an ideal out-of-the-way spot. At least the odor would ensure the lack of curious onlookers.

            The sign that hung on the fence around the tannery’s yard read, “Keep Out Trespasser’s Warned.”

            “What is a ‘Warned’ and why does it belong to this trespasser character? And why isn’t it allowed in this yard?” Aless mumbled. “Are people so poor they can’t afford punctuation here?” She bent down to the earth and grubbed up a bit of soil on her first finger, and then jabbed punctiliously at the sign. She took a step back and surveyed her work, which now read, “Keep Out: Trespasser’s You Have Been Warned!”

            Aless dusted off her hands and hopped the fence; she didn’t consider herself a trespasser—it wasn’t as if she was going to steal anything; unless, of course, the owner of the land took “owner” and “land” very literally…    

Here was to hoping.

            A disguise! What good was an Adventure without a Disguise? Taking a deep breath, she got down to it.

            It was colder than Aless had expected. And less…comfortable. It had rained last night leaving large puddles. The earth was a curious color in this particular area, and frankly, she hadn’t thought the whole mud-in-the-undergarments bit through.

Maybe a roll in a puddle had been a little too extreme…maybe she should have just thrown dirt at the cloak (which she had so elegantly thieved; Robin Hood likely would have tipped his feathered hat and flasher her the roguish twinkle she was sure his eye had). It certainly would have been less…squelchy.

Well, no going back now. The ground made odd sucking noises in protest as Aless rolled into a sitting position, sending ripples to the puddle’s banks. Legs splayed, she scooped up a handful of gloppy brown: “And now for the grand finish--!” Aless squeezed her eyes shut, sucked in her lips, held her breath, and smeared.

“Oi! Boy!” a voice called from somewhere off to the left. Twilight crept in as Aless cautiously cracked first one eye, and then the other.

A grubby man in a bloody apron held an armful of something—something that dangled and swung when he moved. To Aless, he looked like the Falstaff from the old stories—well, about as fat and bald, but less jovial.

The man stepped into the light, the sweat glistening on his shining dome.  His eyebrows were bristling, and Aless could now see that he was holding a complete set, plus some, of cow entrails.

“Boy!” he shouted again, “stop muckin’ in the bowels dump!” With that, he flung his arms wide, releasing a shower of intestines and kidneys, which landed with a definitive plop in the puddle about Aless. The man turned and disappeared, the slam of the tannery’s back door punctuating his exit.

The corner of Aless’s mouth twitched.

Beneath her hood (which she had stolen with such grace, she would like it to be noted), the brown was broken by an eruption of gritty white teeth that spread across her face like the moon coming out. If Aless could have seen herself there in the dusk, she probably would have thought how remarkably much she looked like the floating smile of a cat from one of her favorite childhood books.

“Boy,” she said. And again, with a laugh, “Boy. He called me ‘boy’! Now we’re getting somewhere!”

*

Seamus was pacing.

He wasn’t quite sure why, but it seemed to be the thing that people did in books when they were anxious, so he had followed suit, hoping that hundreds of authors couldn’t be wrong and that it would help.

They were, and it hadn’t.

It had been three days. Three whole days.

His pacing was interrupted abruptly. A maidservant stuck her nose around the corner; “Sir, would m’lady like anything?”

Seamus started, and turned on his heel. He flung his back against the double doors that he had been patrolling.

“No! No, no, it’s fine—we’re fine, m’lady’s fine…and eh, does not require anything…but to be left alone!” He blocked the handles with his body.

“But, sir…” the maid ventured, “she hasn’t eaten in days…”

“Ah, well, yes…I suppose she hasn’t,” he said, his face faltering. His conviction was, however, re-gathered in a moment. “She’s fine,” he repeated. Seamus pushed what he hoped was a reassuring smile across his mouth. Judging by the maidservant’s dubious look, it seemed it had less than done the job. They stayed like that a moment, and then Seamus’s nose twitched in a peculiar way. He glared, and with an about-faced turned the handle of one of the doors. Pushing it open a fraction of an inch, he stuck his nose in. “You’re just fine, aren’t you dear?” The response from within was too quiet to hear from the outside. He closed the door with a snick, and turned again to face the maid. She looked up expectantly.

Seamus sighed, and collapsed back against the doors. He ran his fingers through his tousled hair and said, “On second thought…bacon. Bring lots and lots of bacon….”

The maid’s forehead furrowed a moment, and she then scurried off down the hall before the threat of additional silent commentary offered by her brows was realized.

*

            “Bacon!” The maid whispered in hushed tones to another rather large-bosomed servant who was pretending to dust a picture frame. “That’s all he said she wanted, was bacon!”

The second servant straightened, gave a tight-lipped nod, and began waving her dust rag in a lecturing manner; “Mark my words, it’s the mistress!” Her tone was knowing. “Askin’ for strange things for supper, not coming out of her room for almost half a week…” she folded her arms authoritatively; “the lord and the lady—they’re in…” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “…a family way.”

            The maid’s eyes widened; “You mean…?”

            The larger maid straightened suddenly and looked about suspiciously before continuing, “Yes, I do. Bacon at supper! In all my days…. It’s the only explanation.”

            The smaller maid was not convinced. “What if she just wants bacon?” The other’s expression scoffed this idea.

The first maid placed her hands on her hips: “In that case, the master is with child too; it’s all he’s eaten recently! Bacon: Mounds and mounds of bacon!”

            The large servant shook her head and patted the smaller’s hand reassuringly. “Just you wait and see. When you’ve got as many soiled diapers under your fingernails as I have, you can tell these things. Better put a kettle on for the mistress—she’ll be wantin’ tea soon to calm her stomach….A little one is on the way; I’m sure of it!”

*

            The bacon came sizzling from the frying pan, hissing as it was carried through the halls. It left behind it a glorious trailing aroma. Seamus sprang to his feet from where he has been slumped on the floor against the doors, his long legs splayed out like an awkward grasshopper’s.

            “Excellent, wonderful, good!” The heaping plate shook as he took it from the small servant’s hands. “I’ll just…eh…take it into m’lady myself….she’s eh…not really up to seeing other people right now….”  Seamus ducked inside the door, slamming it behind him. It re-opened a fraction of a second later just enough to accommodate Seamus’s sharp nose.

            “You wouldn’t happen to have a spot of tea made, would you?” Without waiting for an answer, the master again slammed the door.

            The key turned in the lock from inside.

            The small servant cast a wide-eyed glance across the hallway at the larger servant, who had moved her dusting duties to a location more strategic for eavesdropping. She was laughing silently, and shaking her head: “Tea…what did I say? Yes, m’am, just you watch,” she nodded knowingly. “We’re going to be hearing the sound of little feet running down these halls before long!”

*

            The first three nights had been a little rough. Aless felt slightly wounded, like she had been led astray—deceived. In all of the books, the hero always found a warm haystack to sleep in, or a kind elderly couple who offered their barn as a place to bed down for the night.

            Even Little Boy Blue had fallen asleep in the meadow.  

            Turns out, haystacks weren’t that comfortable, and the village seemed fresh out of old people with barns. Aless would have been glad to sleep in a field under the stars, pressed against the warm body of a lounging cow…but it also turned out that apparently cows sleep standing up, unless they’re sick or dead—in which case they aren’t actually asleep…or warm.

            The books had said nothing of this.

            The inn in town had been, of course, out of the question. Money wasn’t an issue—Aless had taken plenty of that—and she could thieve more of it if she wanted, the way she had (so brilliantly, as if she were an apprentice of that old trickster Fagan) slipped off with her Disguise.

The problem was people. People would talk, and ask questions. Ask why a woman was traveling alone. Ask why a woman who was traveling alone had so many coppers. Ask why a woman who was traveling alone with so many coppers smelled like she hadn’t bathed in three days. (Of course the answer to that was, that she smelled that way because she hadn’t bathed in -three days.)

It could be disastrous. The Bard probably would have found some ridiculous sort of situation to toss Aless into if she were a character in one of his plays. Anyone at any time might recognize the pauper as the prince, and she hadn’t wanted to take chances.

Tonight, though, would be different. Tonight, Aless hoped that the mud and her cloak would speak for her, and answer any questions from the start. Tonight there would be no twigs poking in her back as she tried to sleep, no chasing livestock at midnight in search of body heat. Tonight, there would be sheets!

She took a deep breath, and plunged across the town square towards The Blue Boar Inn.

*

            The room was still, except for Seamus’s heavy breathing, and the fizzling hiss of the cooling bacon. His feet dragged across the heavy carpet and brought him to the four-posted bed that dominated the room. He addressed the lump under the covers.

            “Darling, why do you do this to me?”

            There was no answer.

            “They think you’re ill you know. All of them….I don’t know how long they’ll keep thinking that though. They’re not dull. Well, most of them anyways. Not completely dull. Except for that one fellow, the new one who goes about watering the asparagus fern. If I’ve told him once, I’ve told him a hundred times, don’t water the asparagus fern, you’ll drown….ahh what’s the use….”

            Seamus sank down onto the bed. The lump shifted beneath the covers. A book fell from beneath the blanket. And then another, and another.

            “You could have at least used something that would be easier to put away, dear,” Seamus sighed, tossing back the sheet. A mound of books lie on the mattress, heaped vaguely in the shape of an inert body; the bookshelf opposite the bed sat gapingly empty. “And you didn’t have to dirty the sheets…look how untucked they are now….” Seamus consoled himself with a piece of bacon as he surveyed the bedspread that was knotted around the bedpost and trailed out the window, swaying in the pale moonlight. “I should probably take that down….” Seamus popped another strip of bacon into his mouth and chewed contemplatively. “Yes. I should most certainly take that down.” He shifted on the mattress, knocking a stack of books to the floor with thuds of varying pitches.

            “At least you’re a smart girl. Most of the time. I mean, there are times when I’m not sure what’s running through your head at all…but I’ve no doubt you have planned your little Adventure. And I’m sure you’ll be back soon. You just get so…bored….” Seamus sighed for what felt like the fifteenth time that evening, and eyed the rapidly diminishing supply of breakfast meat. “At least there’s bacon…” He shrugged, and stood, licking his fingertips. A final avalanche of books rained down from the bed, the last one landing on his toe before bouncing into a patch of moonlight on the floorboards.

            “Holy mother of crumpets!” The plate of bacon and Seamus both leapt into the air. Seamus grabbed his injured appendage and hopped about on the braided carpet; the bacon’s short-lived flight ended in an ungainly crash.

            Seamus cursed himself for grabbing at his toe instead of diving to intercept the crispy pork strips.

            “Everything alright in there sir?” a voice from outside the door called. Seamus eyed the bacon scattered about the carpet; “No,” he breathed darkly, and then, louder, “Yes, quite fine, thank you! Just had a bit of trouble with the…er…bookshelf….”

            Seamus cast about himself for the plate, and then set about retrieving the sorry fragments of his supper. He turned to go, muttering to himself, but then stopped. There in the moonlight lie the book that had bruised his foot in that most unkind manner. He paused and turned, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light.

            “R.L.S.,” he mumbled under his breath.

Seamus bent, and read out loud the small blue-bound book’s title:

“Kidnapped.”

From the mothball archive....

This is a story I wrote in about a day's time in my junior year of high school. It's a little juvenile, but I think it's apropos as a first post because of the season in which we find ourselves; I meant to have this done before Easter, but life got in the way.
My inspiration for this, very obviously, was Screwtape Proposes a Toast by my very favorite Jack Lewis (I like to think that if we had been friends in real life, we would have been close enough for me to call him "Jack"). I've decided not to revise anything, and just post it here as it was originally written--I know it's a bit long. Some parts I do cringe at, but it would take too long to revise, and then it would never get posted. I hope you enjoy.

>i<
................................................................................................................

Mission: Accomplished

Friday, 01:00 hours. Location: Unknown; possibly underground

The table was set for twenty-one. A hunched figure slipped about, fussing over the place settings. The hearth of the fire flickered with the breath of dying embers, and the dull glow struggled to reach beyond the hearth into the murky shadows. There was no other source of light in the room. Orange winks reflected in the empty wine glasses.

A tall spindly figure leaned awkwardly against the mantlepiece, half-heartedly rubbing its hands together. It cast its gaze about the room, surveying every detail with a critical eye.

Its job was on the line tonight, and this it knew full well.

“If they don't come...” he rasped, barely audible, his voice sounding like crumpling newspaper. The smaller figure halted its scurrying for a moment and looked up from the fork it was polishing.

“They'll come.” He gave a dry, knowing nod, setting the piece down on a dusty napkin. “The boss'll have something to say about it if they don't.” He resumed his fidgeting.

“My hands are cold,” the tall figure said suddenly, breaking the silence with his parched voice. The smaller figure cast a sympathetic look.

“You worry too much.”

“It's my job to worry!” the other snapped back defensively. The small figure absorbed this with a shrug; he'd been taking abuse for what had felt like thousands of years. He hadn't made it very far up the ladder, but had rather settled on a wrung that got him most of the comforts of life that he wanted, without nearly as much of the stress that some others had.

He was used to superiors being testy.

There was a knock at the door, and the tall form sprang to answer it. The door opened to reveal a slouching shape, which quickly straightened as it crossed the threshold.

“Evenin',” the figure intoned, his voice low.

“Good evening,” the tall figure responded without warmth, not meaning a bit of it.

“Hope I'm not late?” the newcomer mumbled, looking everywhere but at the Tall One as his eyes darted about the shadows of the empty room.

“Not at all, not at all,” the smaller form said quickly, casting a glare at the Tall One as he helped the guest out of his coat.

“How're you?” the new figure addressed the Tall One, but did not meet his eyes.

“Splendid.”

The Tall One took a step towards the decanter. His walk seemed abnormally stiff—all jerks and spasms.

The years had not been kind to his nerves.

“A drink?” he offered.

The newcomer started. “No, thank you,” he waved it away. “Never before business.” The Tall One contemplated the glass in his unsteady hand, but at a disapproving glance from the short figure, he wavered and set it down regretfully.

“Our host...?” the guest inquired delicately.

“Will be joining us in his own time.”

“Of course, of course,” the visitor said quickly, as if secretly relieved to get away from the subject. “He always does.” He forced a laugh.

Another knock sounded at the door, and the Tall One started, then strode in his odd lurching way to answer it.

This guest was short and portly, and somewhat red in the face. He huffed and puffed on the stoop like a steam engine and wiped the sweat away from his greasy hairline with his sleeve. “Sorry,” he apologized as the door opened, “had to run here off a job—work is murder. Have you any wine?”

Without waiting for an answer he pushed passed the tall agitated figure that stood between him and the decanter. He snatched the glass that the Short One was polishing with his shirt tails. “Ahh,” he said appreciatively, surveying the wine on the sideboard and running his tongue over his teeth. He selected a bottle with the experienced air of a master; “326—now there was a year!” He chuckled ironically, as if at a private joke, either oblivious to or ignoring of the look of hatred the Short One glowered toward him.

“Hoi!” the new guest exclaimed when he looked up from his second glass. “Look who's here!” He reached a beefy hand out towards the first guest, who took it cordially, but made no other gesture of welcome.

“How goes it with you in Africa, my friend?” he asked too loudly. Sweat stood out on his brow, and he licked his unshaven upper lip.

“Well, well enough,” the other responded softly, discreetly wiping his released hand on a handkerchief. “And with you in Asia?”

“The same, the same, can't complain. Is there any more wine?” he asked as he ruefully eyed the dregs of his glass. He felt, despite the urge to grab at another liter of bottled history, that it would probably be polite to ask.

The Tall One cast a jaundiced eye over the groaning sideboard and ground his teeth.

“No.”

“Pity...” The Fat One shrugged regretfully, looking lustfully over the bottles that winked in the firelight. He turned to the Tall One easily. “You know what the trouble with you is?” he gestured vaguely, “you worry too much. You shouldn't worry so much,” he said, loosening his collar.

“And you should watch your weight,” the Tall One snarled, truly agitated for the first time. The firelight glinted in his eyes.

“Alright, alright, no need for that,” the Fat One doffed his cap and fell heavily into a chair, shaking the whole table and sloshing wine. “Just givin' some advice...”

The Short One turned from jabbing at the fire with a poker towards the Tall One with a look that said, “See, I told you that you worry too much...” The Tall One suddenly turned on him.

“Will you stop messing with that damn fire! It's light enough in here!” As always, the hunched figure took this without comment. The Fat One raised an eyebrow and whistled silently, sucking air through his teeth. The first guest quietly studied his place setting, even though he had not yet sat down.

The Tall One reached unsteadily for a wine glass.

There was another knock.

“Excuse me,” the Tall One said pointedly, turning away stiffly and setting his glass down, knocking it over. Another guest was admitted, and formalities were exchanged. The hunched figure shot a look across the room at his superior that said, “I told you they'd come,” but this time did not voice his thoughts.

And so it went. One by one, slowly the guests arrived. Greetings were exchanged but not meant, glasses were passed around, and there were occasional bouts of nervous laughter when someone made a poor joke, but there was an odd smell and a taste in the room, like a drawn bowstring about to snap.

The guests did not seem to mind the darkness—it appeared they almost thrived in it, sometimes retreating into the blackest corners with their wineglasses, as if they loathed even the dull glow of the fire.

Gradually, the guests found their seats around the table, still talking swapping stories about the business in fragmented conversations carried out in hushed tones. There was only one empty place at the table—the head.

No one was talking much now.

Suddenly, there was a stirring in the darkest corner, and an immediate hush fell upon the room. Every eye turned, riveted to the blackness. Then, a movement in the shadows, and slowly, ever so slowly, a large door that had before gone unnoticed silently swung open.

A figure stepped into the open. His bulk seemed to fill the oppressive room, absorbing the meager light. He moved deliberately. Though every eye was on him, he cast his eyes upon no one from under hooded lids.

His cloak swept about him like night sweeps about a mountain.

The Tall One scurried to pull his chair out for him, and the Short One stood in a corner, arms hanging at his sides, gaping unabashedly.

He had never seen Him in real life before.

With gravity, the form gathered his cloaks about him, and eased himself deliberately into the chair at the head of the party. Suddenly, everyone seemed to take an unexplained interest in the empty plates before them, or the napkins upon their laps. No one dared meet the new figure's eyes.

“Sirs,” the Tall One said with gravity, “I give you our Host.”

*

No one moved. The fire flickered lower, but silently, as if it too had been struck dumb with fear of breaking the silence. The Form that dominated the room scanned each present, and every figure recoiled inwardly as his gaze lit upon them. No one lifted his eyes.

Finally, he said, “So. They are all here.”

His voice was deep, like the lowest registers of a pipe organ.

“Yes, sir. All twenty including myself, sir,” the Tall One reported softly as he took his seat at the Host's left hand.

At length, the Host lifted his voice and addressed the table in a businesslike manner that still somehow managed to chill to the bone. He took time to savor every syllable that rolled from his tongue, as if he knew the effect his voice had upon the dinner guests.

“Sirs, colleagues, associates. I need not say why we are here.” A general murmur of agreement rippled around the table. The Host's voice grated upon his listeners' ears; beneath the table, toes curled inadvertently. It sounded like he had swallowed a mouthful of gravel some years ago, and every time he talked the rocks ground together inside of him. (In reality, this was not far from the truth; however, everyone knew better than to even mention it, though there was not one who did not know of the Unfortunate Occurrence of 326.)

The room seemed to fill with a thickness that made it hard to breathe. The fire was obviously suffering.

The Host continued.

“We are endeavoring to undertake an extremely delicate enterprise tonight. Our intelligence network spans across the globe, thanks to many of you. We have laid our plans with great care. All of us here have awaited this day with great anticipation.” He paused, letting his words take effect. They were not lost upon the guests.

“Tonight, when all goes as planned, many many years of hard labor on the part of all of those present will finally be paid off.” Now his voice rose, and he gestured emphatically. “I know that there is not one here who has not given his blood, sweat, and much much more towards making this night possible.” Another murmur of assent, and some scattered clapping. “Now, tonight, we enjoy the hard-earned fruits of our labor!” The Host raised his glass, and the table broke into nervous applause.

The Host shifted in his chair. “Due to the...delicate...nature of this venture, it is understandable that we ourselves must, out of necessity be somewhat removed from the immediate happenings of tonight, which is why I have called you all here, instead of elsewhere. However; I have strategically placed agents covering all critical areas. The moment anything happens, we will know.” He settled back in the chair, and allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. The guests threw nervous glances at each other, but if there were any comments to be had, they were not expressed.

“And now,” said the Host, “we wait.”

The silence was thick. The air was heavy with expectation, and the only noise was the crackling of the fire. The Tall One clenched and unclenched his clammy fists under the table.

Eternities passed.

Suddenly, there was the sound of running footsteps, and the door exploded in a burst of pounding. The silverware on the table rattled as everyone started violently. Only the Host remained motionless, except for a slightly perceptible nod towards the Short One, who sprang towards the door from his corner. He did not have it open an inch before he was nearly bowled over by a wiry little ball of energy that pulled up short at the sight of the sombre gathering. Everyone leaned forward expectantly.

Panting a moment, the messenger gasped, “We've got him! He's been arrested!”

Nobody moved. All eyes turned towards the head of the table. Silence. Then, a smile began to play at the corner of twisted lips. He made a small gesture with his forefinger, and immediately the Short One was at his elbow.

“Now,” the Host said, “pour these gentleguests some wine.”

*

Either the news the messenger had brought or the wine, or the combination of the two, loosened the tongues of the part considerably, but there was still a subdued feeling about the room.

“The second he was nailed, they all scattered like roaches!” the messenger confided to the host, and those eavesdropping, with glee.

“Some friends,” one of the guests remarked wryly.

The Host motioned for the Short One to give the panting messenger wine. The messenger took it gratefully, then retreated into a dark corner, nursing the glass.

Smaller conversations were whispered between neighbors. One caught the ear of the Host: “They'll never push it through,” one figure worried in undertones to the guest at his right. “I just know they won't! It's too risky, too illegal—the whole thing is crooked, not legitimate...”

He was cut off by the door bursting open, almost off its hinges. It released a second messenger, who stumbled across the threshold.

“The verdict! The verdict is in—it's “Guilty!” We've got 'em, boys, we've got em...!”

There wasn't even time to toast, for almost on his heels came another, crying all the way, “Execution! It's execution for him, and nothing else!” He arrived on the doorstep long after his news had reached the ears of the party.

“You see?” said the Host, casting his eyes about the room, “I have provided for everything.”

The two messengers panted side by side and were accordingly provided with refreshments. They retreated into the darkness of an alcove, whispering in animated but hushed tones, comparing notes.

They fire had burned down very low, and only a few embers still glowed, like orange eyes burning into the night.

It was very dark in the room.

With each passing moment, anticipation grew among the party. The Host had long ago fallen silent. Every guest within his own bosom was soundlessly hoping, hoping against hope, not daring to breathe, waiting for that final knock that would spell disaster or victory.

The knock they had waited ages, ages for.

Silence reined in the blackness.

Slowly, slowly, the Host drummed his fingers, one at a time, upon the crimson tablecloth.

The clock above the mantlepiece ticked away the years.

Someone sneezed, and everyone jumped, then cast disapproving glares towards the offender.

“This is when it really comes down to it, ehh boys?” commentated one in too loud of a whisper. He was too drunk to appreciate the daggers that the Tall One shot into him with his eyes.

The Host's speech burned silently in everyone's ears.

Three words. Everyone was thinking it. Just three words....

Then...everyone heard it. Outside, beyond the door—a scraping sound: slow shuffling; feet upon flagstone.

Stone-still, every eye bent intently upon the door.

The Tall One's fists were clenched so tightly that his fingernails bit into his bloody palms. Everyone knew: No tripping two-bit messenger was to be expected here; this would be news straight from the Top.

The shuffling stopped.

A steady knock rang out, echoing even through the thickness of the dead air.

The Short One looked timidly towards the Host, barely daring to move. The Host remained stone-faced. With solemnity, the Short One crept towards the door, reaching out a trembling, clamming hand towards the handle. He did not reach it before it swung open, ominously, of its own accord. The short one fell back, startled, but quickly regained himself.

The draft from the door extinguished the last embers of the fire. Darkness seeped into everyone's eyes and ears and souls, filling out the corners of the room.

The agent stepped across the threshold, and spoke:

“It is finished.”

Silence.

Then, the Host smiled in the dark.

Slowly, he stood.

“Gentledemons,” he laughed; then he said the words, the three words: “God is dead.”

He raised a wineglass.

“To the death of Jesus Christ.”

*

The door swung shut, plunging the room into complete darkness.

It took a few moments for the news to sink in. Then, the room erupted in a cacophony of shouts and whoops, cries and laughter. Food seemed to appear on the plates before everyone, and there was much congratulatory back-slapping and hand-shaking. Wine, wine, everything was wine and clinking glasses and spills and laughter. Some skipped the glasses all together and went straight for the bottles, pouring wine into their mouths and down their fronts. There was pushing and shoving and bawdy songs—some stood on their chairs in the revelry, belting at the tops of their lungs in screeching tones, swaying dangerously. Some shouted curses, curses for the God of Heaven the like which had never been heard before—even in 326. In the dark someone almost too drunk to stand got up on a table and danced.

The Tall One smiled for the first time that night, perhaps for the first time in centuries.

And the Host threw back his head, and laughed.

A laugh that echoed from the razor-sharp peaks of the highest mountains to the lowest crags of the parched blistering deserts. The earth shuddered.

The Host fell into his chair, a self-satisfied sneer hanging upon his crooked lips, soaking in the glory he had longed for since he had first tasted freedom.

Even the look of horror and understanding in the woman's eyes as she spat the flesh of the fruit from her dripping lips had not felt as wonderful, as purely exhilarating as this.

Then someone started in above the din, “Speech! Speech!”, and gradually the others caught on and started in, slurring, “Speech! Speech!”

The Host rose with a congenial laugh, a sound that shook the very four walls, and spread his arms wide. “No speeches tonight, my beautiful, beautiful gentledemons; tonight, wine!” This was quite agreeable to everyone; the room erupted in cheers, and the revelry resumed with renewed gusto. The celebration would never, ever stop—what a wonderful thought, to be drunk for eternity....

Softly, the Tall One approached the Host, and extended a hand. “May I congratulate you, sir. Thank you.” The Host merely leaned back in his chair and smiled, offering the Tall One a full glass. The Tall One took it with a bow, and resumed his seat.

But something began to feel wrong.

Not everyone noticed it at first, but the feeling grew and filled the room until it was undeniable. To some, it was a faint ringing in their ears; to others it was a cold tingle running down their spine, or in the hairs on the backs of their necks. At first on the whole most everyone ignored the sensation, and it was more annoying than uncomfortable, like a nagging forgotten thought unable to be remembered. But it grew and pricked, until even the most inebriated guest noticed it, and pulled at their collars or scratched behind their ears. “Musta been a bad year,” one guest held his wineglass up suspiciously, swirling the contents with his little finger.

The Tall One sat ridged as a stone gargoyle, his drink forgotten. He was not too drunk to realize the sinking feeling crawling up his spine and down his throat into the pit of his stomach. He stole glances out of the corner of his eye at the Host, though he darned not reach up and smooth the hairs that stood out like needles in his flesh on the back of his neck. The Host had fallen silent, and was slumped low into his chair, his chin dug into his fists. His eyes were bottomless, calculating caves.

One drunken guest staggered over. “Speech! Speech, O Great One! Speech!” he slurred, swaying. The Host shot a mottled hand out and seized the demon by his lapels, flinging him across the room. He landed with a crash among a squirming mass of guests in a corner, eliciting sharp protests. The Host sat like a stone. Those around him were beginning to notice, ans the noise started to die down.

The waning of enthusiasm was not lost upon the Host. Suddenly, he stood and bellowed out in horse voice, “What's wrong? Don't just sit there, damn you! Dance! Talk! Drink!” An enterprising scrawny figure started up a feeble chorus, and the clamor half-heartedly resumed.

The ringing grew to a distant rumble, like the warning of a storm. Some clapped their hands over their ears, looking around, mystified, seeking the source of the noise. The Host's hand trembled, and then seized a wineglass, dashing it to millions of shards upon the floor.

The Tall One's hands trembled, so he hid them under the tablecloth, but that did not stop them, so he sat upon them.

The faint rumblings grew, and now no one could ignore them. The silverware on the table began to rattle, and the wine danced in the glasses. It was like a freight train was coming at two hundred miles and hour, and they were directly in its path. Some made wild grabs for the wine—as far as they were concerned, they were going to be good and incapacitated when it him them, whatever It was.

The whole room rumbled. No longer did anyone even put up a pretense of talking anymore. All sat, horrified, frozen, looking at each other, and finally to their Host, for answers.

The Host's mouth was now a thin straight line—all signs of sneer were gone from his lips. His only betrayal of apprehension was the fingers of his left hand that drummed stiffly upon his knee.

Suddenly, there was a deafening, scraping, grating sound, like metal being forcibly twisted wrenched and twisted that shook the room to its foundations, and in the dark everyone grabbed at something to steady himself. Dislodged dust and plaster rained down from overhead, amid confused cries of, “What was that?!”

But the Tall One knew.

“The Gates...” he could not help gasping under his breath. “Hades....”

The Host shot him a grim look of warning from under jutting brows but said nothing, grinding his teeth. The Tall One bit his tongue.

And then the most horrible thing imaginable happened.

It started in the keyhole. Just a bit from the keyhole, and then it came creeping around the frame of the door like smoke. The dark figures sucked in their breath, and slowly those on the far end of the table began to back away from the door; those closer to it could only sit, petrified and wide-eyed as it crept towards them...through the air, across the floor from the crack under the door....

The door was beginning to feel the strain. It was bending at the hinges, as if it were damming back a flood of water; it groaned under the weight, and bowed.

But it was keeping back something much stronger than water—and it could take it no longer. Suddenly, the door burst apart with a mighty crack, exploding into splinters, letting in a sheer blast of it.

Light. Pure, liquid light. Light you could feel.

The demons felt it, the white searing their flesh and burning their eyes like acid as they ran screeching, clawing blindly over each other in a mad scramble of biting and fighting for the remaining dark corners. The Tall One let out an unearthly scream and threw his hands before his face and falling backwards onto the floor, and the Short One dived under the table, taking the cloth and several place settings with him.

And there He stood in the doorway. In his right hand dangled a rusted piece of tortured metal, which He threw away with a clang. Then He stepped across the threshold, dusting His hands clean.

His hands were bloody.

“You're dead!” the Host tried to croak, but own voice sounded foreign to his own ears, and came out sounding tiny and strangled.

It was His face; all the light emanated from His face, and His piercing eyes. His eyes that turned to one form: The Host.

He was down on his knees, trying to draw his cloak around his head and not expose his hands to the light at the same time, attempting to make himself as small as possible and to squirm back into the shadows. And he was shaking, and whimpering (the Tall One had fainted away ages ago). He kept babbling something unintelligible over and over again through the muffled folds of his cloak; finally it became apparent that he was blubbering, “Don't kill me! Don't—don't torture me! Please...don't...please.....don't...don't....”

Jesus bent down easily and balanced on the balls of His feet. He somehow seemed to shine even brighter next to the sniveling creature that cringed pitifully upon the floor before Him.

Jesus's words were simple:

“You have something of mine.”

He extended a hand, and the devil recoiled, crying out.

But, he fumbled within himself and his cloak, desperately searching for something, as if it hurt him to keep whatever he was looking for. There was a jingling sound, and a trembling hand finally produced a rusty ring of keys that seemed to be cut from darkness itself—but when they were held forth they glowed a dark, tarnished bronze. They seemed to sear the devil's hand like a living coal, and Jesus reached forth and too the keys to Death in His own. Immediately, the devil drew his hand back into himself, nursing it and whimpering until the saliva ran forth from his mouth onto the carpet.

Jesus smiled, and straightened up. The devil took this opportunity to, stumbling, fling himself upon his face into the nearest corner, squishing four medium-sized demons in the process, who cried out in protest and bit back.

Jesus turned for the door, casting one last glance upon the destroyed room that had been reserved a few short hours ago for the celebration of His death.

A smile played upon his lips.

There was no door to close. He left them, cowering and trembling in the gloom, and the sound of His laughter echoed and lingered about the room long after He had gone, bringing down more plaster from the ceiling.