The Murder of an Angel

My red fingers spread softly on her skin, like blood spilt on ice. My claws weaved themselves into her star-woven hair. Her body rested softly in my crimson arms. What used to offer happiness, warmth, a beatific joy, now only brings a dark triad of emotions. A frustration I could not stop what befell my divine flower. An anger, a burning enmity at the true demons who hide their diabolical hearts with serpentine silver tongues, living life like theatre. And a sadness incomprehensible for the grave injustice I have done towards God. In my ignorance, and a selfish desire to feel that emotion so valuable to the realms above, I had killed her so. I had killed love given form. Is there no worse crime in God’s court?

My tears could not subdue my rage. My eyes rose skyward and shifted towards His kingdom. My mouth stretched wide, my fangs poised for blood and my tongue lashed out with smoke and fury of brimstone.

“What egoism, what misguided moral roots are embedded into your mind? How can you look upon your creations, your disgusting humanity, and say they are good? Answer me, O powerful sadist! If these men were my creations, made in my image, I would dare not look in my reflection for fear of the being in the glass! Mayhaps I understand now, why you plague your belovéd ones with famine, flood and war! You leave them in the darkness, searching for a false light like a moth in the blind night. O merciful one, I understand, I understand! Tis’ truly the greatest torture, an anguish of divine machination! To promise the pasture of paradise, only to gift the scorched fields of my joyous home!”

Upon that last word and expended breath, I heaved a great, deep roar to the heavens. The sound trampled through the trees, flushing out His beloved animals from my enragéd range. The sound had shocked the clouds, and made their mark. Rain showered down from His skies and cried upon the forest. It streamed down my twisted horns, and washed my face away, tears upon tears. It gave me transient solace in believing I had made Him share this aching burden.

Friday Fictioneers


The photo above is the photo prompt for my following story in participation of Friday Fictioneers.

My Father’s Shoes

I’ll never look at his boots the same again. And I’ll never remember my father the same either. He was a good man and he couldn’t be a better father. His friends would always say “like father, like son” whenever I helped at the lumberyard. Those words were comforting, but now they bring nothing but dread.

That night he came home furious, his breath stank and his speech slurred at every syllable. I watched from my room as my father became a savage beast, ravaging the house. All that was left of him in the morning were his torn boots.

Word Count: 100