The Unbelievable Adventures of Claire Elizabeth Rogers

Things One Shouldn't Say When Meeting God for the First Time

2011-09-23T16:45:00.003-04:00

Okay. So you've died and gone to Heaven, Incorporated and you're meeting God for the first time. You're about to have your entire belief system marginally blown out of the water and the greatest thing about God is that She gets it. You're expecting an old white dude with a long beard and flowing robe and instead you get a gorgeous woman with caramel skin and green eyes who fills out a toga in a way that makes you think earthly women need lessons. She understands all that because She's God and She knows how you think - knows what you're thinking - and loves you all the same.

That doesn't mean She appreciates the oggling, or the dead fish impressions, or the occasional attempt at an exorcism.(1) She may be a deity and may put Her sandals on differently in the morning (2) but that doesn't mean She isn't just like everyone you've ever met before in your tiny little earthly life.

To save yourself a long stay in a spectacularly warm room, though, it's recommended that you never voice the following five things when first meeting God. Trust us; with advice like this, you may actually get out of the DMV even after you've died.

1. "Are You sure You're God?"

Oh boy, is She sure. She's so absolutely positive about being God that She'd like to prove it to you. Just pay close attention while She smites your ass.

2. "Do you know Jesus/Jimi Hendrix/Any other dead person you've always wanted to meet?"

Yup. She does. She has lunch with a whole lot of dead people on a daily basis and Jesus is Her half-brother. Does She want to talk to you about them? Hell no. Why's that? Because you've just died and your naughty/nice list has appeared in Her inbox with a definite slant towards the former. You've got bigger things to worry about at the moment.

3. "What's Hell really like?"

It's hot. And there are demons. And if you're really unlucky, you work for Satan. Any other stupid questions?

4. "So. Garden of Eden."

How about the next time you royally screw up in your life, we all just knock on your door and remind you of it? What's that? You died while antagonizing a buffalo on the side of the road? Haha, wow...let's talk about that constantly for the next hundred or so years...

5. "Can I get in contact with my dead relatives and/or friends?"

This is a completely valid question. Who wouldn't want to see their deceased loved ones when they've finally arrived in the afterlife? But don't ask God.(3) She isn't the tour guide, She's the President. Do you think the President knows where all the bathrooms are in the White House? Find a docent wearing a blue blazer and ask all the questions you can manage - they love it when you bother them incessantly.

So there you go. A quick and dirty guide to your first few moments in the Pearly Gates Corporation. Remember to look at the wall maps so you'll always know where you are. There are all sorts of interesting hallways to travel down...however, some of them lead to rooms full of nasty things like classrooms.

(1) She thought for the first few years of Her tenure at Heaven, Inc. that saying "I cast you out, demon!" was just how the Baptists said hello.

(2) Her sandals have wings. Have you ever tried to put on sandals sporting tiny wings on their sides? No? Then stop judging.

(3) Honestly, She loves this question. Nine times out of ten, She'll even help you find them. Unless they're downstairs, in which case She'll have Gabriel help you find them.

The Perilous Case of the Exploding Minion (er...Demon)

2011-08-15T21:20:00.000-04:00

It's nearly two in the morning when the lamp on Claire's bedside table flickers on and the very much asleep Prophet of God mumbles something about shutting off the moon. She does not, however, wake up.

The light gets stronger, brighter, causing Claire's eyelids to flutter open and a frown to appear on her normally impassive face. She turns the lamp off, smiles once more, and rolls away from it, buries her head under a mountain of blankets and pillows - just in case it decides to try it again.

The lamp, not to be out manuevered, turns itself back on and tips over onto the bed.

"Dirty billards," Claire says, pulling herself out from under the blankets and pillows. "Talk about a fire hazard." She turns the lamp off once again.

"Oh good," a feminine voice says from the doorway to the bedroom and Claire starts, falls out of bed in a heap of bare limbs and mismatched socks. God grins at her and waves. "You're up."

***

God at least has the decency to make Claire coffee and breakfast while She explains why She's suddenly appeared in the prophet's apartment. The unfortunate side of it, however, is that God can't, for the afterlife of Her, make a decent cup of joe. She can create planets, explode stars, make life, and even get jiggy with it, but She's an utter failure at coffee making.

Claire takes a tentative sip, grimaces when the bitter liquid hits her tongue with the same flavor reserved for batter acid. God looks at her expectantly.

"Well?" She asks.

"I think You're getting a little better at it," Claire says, setting down the cup. "This tastes more like acid and less like sludge." God frowns, setting off car alarms all down the block, and Claire sighs. "Why are You here?" she asks. She hazards a glance at the clock on the stove and wishes almost immediately that she hadn't. There are single digits...low single digits...glaring at her in green light. "Better yet, why are You here three hours before sunrise on a Saturday."

"How do you feel about Florida?"

"The same way You feel about Hell."

God's pout becomes more pronounced. "I'm having a little problem with a demon down there."

Claire sips her coffee without thinking and regrets it. "So call an exterminator," she says. "I tell people about You, convince them to play for the side of good. I do not get rid of demons in swamps."

"It's in Miami."

"Semantics."

God stares at her for a moment and Claire stares right back. She learned a long time ago, when she first became a prophet, that the best way to keep God from bossing you around was to look Her in the eye and stand your ground.

"I'll fly you first class and spring for a suite."

There's only so much ground one can stand when faced with fluffy towels and free champagne.

***

Gabriel, dressed in short khakis and a Hawaiian shirt and sporting a thick, black mustache on his tanned face, meets Claire at her hotel. Sort of. He lands on her balcony, knocks on the door, and scares the shit out of her. She's expecting Michael, so the sudden appearance of God's right-hand-angel throws her for a loop.

Claire opens the sliding door. "Magnum P.I. called," she says. "He wants his shirt and mustache back."

He frowns, smooths down the mustache. "I'm sure that would be hilarious if I knew who this Magnum person was."

Claire hides a grin and shakes her head. "Nice to see you, Gabe."

"Somewhat the same, Claire." He motions over his shoulder. "Shall we get on with it? I have a bridge game with Hermes and Shiva in three Earthly hours and if I'm late, Shiva destroys my cards. He literally destroys them."(1)

"Do you know where we're going?" she asks.

"She mentioned something about a crackhouse..."

***

God gets confused with Earthly references. What She thought was a crackhouse was actually a house cracked in half by a recent hurricane. And the demon, who God told her was evil and terrible and would most likely suck her soul if given the chance, was actually an adorable little boy with an afro and a grin that lit up the cracked house.

"That's a small child," Gabriel says, confused.

"Your observation skills are getting better."

"What's up, Heaven Ink?" the little boy says, his grin widening even more. There's a flash of white teeth - white, pointed, very sharp teeth - and the illusion of him being simply a child is vaporized. "You the po-po?"

"Do you have a name?" Claire asks.

"Razul."

Recognition hits Claire with an animated background and lots of bright colors.(2) She can't help it - she laughs.

The little boy grows in size, proves he's definitely NOT a little boy, and Gabriel seems to shrink a little, hides behind Claire. (3)

"Don't laugh at the demon, Claire," he hisses.

"Yeah, lady, it ain't nice to laugh at demons!"

Claire's spent time in a vault with the Devil, has had lunch with Hades, and grew up with her mother. She doesn't scare easily, especially when faced with a lower level demon wearing a Sponge Bob Squarepants t-shirt. She rolls her eyes. "Just do your thing, Gabe. I'm hot, I'm tired, and there's a huge jacuzzi tub in my hotel suite calling my name."

"You're such a mortal," he says and pushes back the hair on his forearms like sleeves.(4)

***

God pops into Claire's hotel room three hours after Gabriel does his thing and disintegrates the little demon. Gabe's back in the Penthouse and She's all smiles. Meanwhile, Claire's still picking pieces of demon from her curls.

"Two things: first, that was horrible. You should have told me Razul was a little boy."

"Technically, his coporeal form is a little boy. He's actually a three foot tall green thing with scales and the disposition of a rattlesnake."

Claire pauses in her de-demoning long enough to throw an icy frown in God's direction. "Second, You could have warned me that when you blow those damned things up, they have a ridiculously huge blast radius."

God rolls Her green eyes. "Oh please, Claire. It was just a little coporeal form explosion. Think of it as blowing away the fluffy part of a dandelion."

"Dandelions do not have horns and tails and a definite dislike of being exploded!" She combs a piece of demon from her hair and flings it in God's direction, where it lands on Her pristine white linen pants with a sad squelching noise.

"These are brand new, Claire," She says, Her voice borderling whining.

"I'm not even sure why You sent me down here. Gabriel did all the work."

"Did he?"

"He's the one who blew up Razul." She points to her hair. "I just collected the evidence of it."

"There are bad things coming, Claire. The more exposure you have to them, the better prepared you'll be."

"So the apocalypse is going to be full of exploding demon children?"

God sighs, hides Her face behind Her hands. "You have a gift for missing the point." Claire flings another piece of demon at Her. It lands in Her afro and even God has a difficult time not being disgusted. "Spot on with the demon pieces, though."

(1) Shiva the Destroyer...of all things fun. See here.

(2) Razul, as in the guard from the Disney movie "Aladdin". As in the fat guy with the satanic goatee...who also happens to be a demon in the shape of a little boy with a huge afro. Claire loves when her life takes a turn for the truly strange - it's so different from her usual state of weirdness.

(3) The only thing in the universe Gabriel could hide behind is Zeus. And Zeus makes a Buick look small.

(4) Gabriel is one hairy mofo.

Little Lucy's Coffee and Soul Emporium

2011-07-08T16:00:00.000-04:00

Michael finds himself late to lunch on most occasions. It's usually a normal excuse, like too much work or God has him running errands She can't convince Metatron to do, but sometimes it's just plain laziness. Like today. He could have gotten up from his chair at lunchtime and made it down before they closed the kitchens, but he just didn't feel like it. So instead of the meatloaf special (which he wasn't really looking forward to, anyway), he's eating a stale danish and drinking hours old coffee. Because it's so quiet in the lunchroom, though, he's actually enjoying it.

Until Lucifer shows up and decides to ruin Michael's party by sitting down at the table with him.

"Did you miss lunch, too?" Michael asks, carefully avoiding subjects on which the Devil might feel obligated to expound.(1)

"As a matter of fact, I did." He points to the meager meal in front of Michael. "Is any of that good?"

"The coffee ate the spoon about three minutes ago and I think I chipped a tooth on the danish, but overall it isn't the worst thing I've ever eaten."

Lucifer stares at him a beat longer before getting up from the table and disappearing into the kitchen. When he reappears a few minutes later, he has a fresh pot of coffee in one hand a plate with bread, cheese, and fruit piled high on it in the other. He sets them in the middle of the table and grabs two cups before sitting down again.

"It ain't loaves and fishes, but it'll do in a pinch," he says, pouring out fresh black coffee.

Michael inhales a waft of steam from his coffee cup, quirks an eyebrow. "Why, Lucy, I do believe this coffee smells like brimstone."

Lucifer inhales, takes a large sip. "Indeed it does, angel. And it tastes like despairing souls, as well."

"Manufacturing coffee now, are we?" Michael asks, sipping his coffee slowly. He doesn't think it'll have any adverse effects on him, but all the same - if the Devil brewed it, there's no telling what it's capable of.

Lucifer shrugs, leans back in his chair. He looks casual and comfortable in a well-tailored linen suit and light blue oxford shirt, sans tie. Michael glances around the edge of table, finds his suspicions confirmed - boat shoes, no socks, incredibly hairy ankles.

"We just had a handful of Colombian drug lords arrive downstairs. Terrible people, definitely headed for the barraks in the Pit of Despair Wing, but goodness do they know how to make a cup of coffee."

"Getting fashion tips, as well, I see," Michael says with a smirk.

Lucifer grins, the flash of sharp, white teeth somewhat subdued by his attire. "They spend eternity in purple jumpsuits," he says. "I just can't see throwing out a perfectly good set of linen suits." He holds both of his hands up, five fingers on one and two on the other. "Seven of them, Mike. Seven."

"Got anything in a forty-four long?" Michael asks.

"Not with them, but there's a crew of mobsters arriving from Miami in the evening - I'm sure I could rustle up something for you."

Michael nods. "Ellie's always bugging me to dress better."

"I'm not one to usually agree with Her Grand Self, but togas are a little outdated."

"Damn comfortable, though." He stands, sways his hips, and the fabric around his legs sways. "Not to mention breezy." He reclaims his chair.

"I'm not sure that image will ever leave me," Lucifer says.

"Let me add to it by telling you I'm footloose and fancy free."(2)

Lucifer cringes. "Yup. That did it." He taps his temple. "Burned in there forever and ever." He finishes his coffee, takes a hunk of bread and cheese, a handful of grapes. He stands. "Thanks for the conversation, Mike," he says.

"No problem, Lucy. Thanks for the coffee."

The Devil nods, disappears into the hallway. Michael sits and finishes his coffee, is just pouring himself a second cup when God and Saint Rita(3) arrive in the lunchroom. Rita is all smiles under her habit. She waves at Michael, practically skipping across the room to his table. He's always had a soft spot for Rita - he likes a woman who refuses to see anything but possibility.(4)

"We just passed Lucy in the hallway," Ellie says, sitting down across from the archangel. "I hate to say it, but he looked good in that suit."

"Spoils of the Colombian drug war," Michael says. He motions to the pot of coffee, which is still steaming. "Coffee?"

"Did the Magenta Misfit make it?" Ellie asks.

"He did, indeed. He could have a second career as a barrista if things don't work out for him as the Root of all Evil." He sips his coffee, hums with approval. "Little Lucy's Coffee and Soul Emporium. It's a bargain."

Ellie pulls a face, something between amusement and disgust. "I think I'll pass. We both know what happened the last time I drank something he'd made."

Rita sits down, pours herself a cup of coffee, and takes a sip before anyone can stop her. She stares down at the cup. "Lord, this is amazing. You mean to tell me the Devil himself made this?" she asks.

"Seems impossible, right?" God asks before She can stop Herself.

Rita pours herself more coffee. "No one likes a smartass, Dia."

(1) Like who his favorites are on the most recent season of American Idol. Michael's never been a fan of pop music, but he can appreciate a good, upbeat song as much as the next person (with wings). American Idol, though, offends his punk rocker sensibilities. It would figure the Devil would endorse it.

(2) He forgot to do laundry (which means he forgot to leave his laundry out for the cherubs to do), so he's currently commando. Buckwild. Naked under his clothes. Do I really need to go on?

(3) St. Rita, Patron Saint of the Impossible. Those days when you just don't think your skinny jeans will contain your not so skinny ass but they do? St. Rita. You wake up with fifteen minutes to get ready and eat breakfast and you still make it into work on time and looking fabulous? Yup, St. Rita. She's pretty much the shit.

(4) Sometimes, he wishes she'd rub off a little on Ellie. And then he reminds himself that he's not supposed to be in love with his boss...especially since his boss is THE BOSS.

Cupcakes and Communion

2011-06-17T14:36:00.008-04:00

Dedicated to my dad in honor of Father's Day. "Harry Rogers" never would have existed were it not for Arthur Hunt.

Come to think of it, neither would I. :)

* * *

Harry Rogers never pictured himself a father.

When he first married Katharine, they discussed the possibility of children in the future. While the idea terrified him (truthfully, it left him pale and shaken with an appetite for scotch he didn't fully comprehend), he told his wife - whom he loved truly, madly and very deeply - he'd consider it.

She gave him seven years to consider it before she dropped it in his lap with a large smile and a Father's Day card in the middle of October. He remembers opening the card, reading the 'congratulations' scrawled inside it, and feeling a bubble of pure joy work it's way up his throat.(1)

Claire was born in March. Katharine took to motherhood like a natural while Harry stumbled through it like an amatuer. He spent the first three months of her life living in fear of dropping her. He'd bundle her up just to move her around the house, a precaution against his clumsiness and worry.

Claire was six when they had Patrick and by then Harry was a pro. He changed diapers, never dropped his newborn son(2), never lost sight of his precocious and rambunctious children, and became very very good at keeping calm in the face of unbelievable insanity.

Which was good, because after Claire's six birthday, "unbelievable insanity" took on a whole new meaning.

* * *

The most memorable Father's Day of Harry's youth was when Claire was just eight years old. She left a handwritten note in the kitchen, discovered hours after she'd disappeared, stating she'd decided to take off on a "holy mission". Katharine had been immediately frantic, calling everyone they knew.(3) While she panicked, Harry went upstairs and checked Claire's room. He found her piggy bank missing and, knowing his daughter's penchant for equating cupcakes with the Lord,(4) decided to take a walk down the street.

He found her in a bakery three blocks away from their house, just as he suspected he would. She was covered in crumbs and streaked with chocolate, the remnants of her piggy bank on the chair beside her. He sat down next to her and she offered him the remainder of a vanilla cupcake, which he took and bit into without a second thought.

"What did you do today, Claire?" he asked around a mouthful of cake and icing, which was excellent.

"I communed with God," she said.

"Did you now?" She nodded, proud and sure. "And how did you do that, exactly?"

She smiled widely. "I ate six chocolate cupcakes."

Harry hid a smile behind a napkin and swallowed the remainder of his cupcake. "Did you know insanity is hereditary, my gorgeous girl?" he asked. Claire shook her head, red curls bouncing in opposing directions. He took a napkin and began to clean her face. "Well it is." He crumpled up the napkin and smiled at her, far too relieved to be angry. "You get it from your kids."

* * *

Harry remembers perfectly when Claire took her first communion. She accepted the wafer from the priest, set it in her mouth, and turned to look at her family with a terribly disgusted look on her face that made Katharine roll her eyes almost instantly. It made Harry laugh out loud, only to be shushed by his wife.

"How was it?" Harry asked afterwards as they left the church.

"It wasn't cupcakes and milk," she grumbled, "that's for sure."

(1) It wasn't, unfortunately, joy. It was instead food poisoning. But once he was feeling better, he definitely bubbled over with joy. In a masculine way, of course.

(2) Accidentally allowing him to roll off the countertop into a trash can does not constitute "dropping". Don't argue semantics with an English professor.

(3) She basically called Michael and yelled at him for half an hour about shirking his duties as Claire's guardian angel. Michael's hair was dirty blonde before he met Claire...he blames the gray strands on both her and her mother. Every single one of them.

(4) Katharine had once given Claire a chocolate cupcake and told her it was God's favorite thing in the entire universe. Children make associations, hilarious and typically incorrect associations.

Sabotage is Not French for Rapture

2011-05-20T19:41:00.011-04:00

The elevator doors open and reveal God in all Her resplendent beauty. Lucifer scowls as She smiles at him. He takes a deep, fortifying breath and steps in, hits the "L" button and does his best to ignore the Woman behind him. He taps his foot in time to the music filtering into the elevator car, hums along with the familiar tune.(1)

God giggles, attempts to cover it with a cough, and fails miserably. He turns and frowns at Her once more. She waves a hand at him, sobers.

"Sorry," She says. "Frog in My throat."

He pulls a gold pocket watch from his pinstripe blazer and glances at it, then looks at Her once again. "You do know what time it is, don't You?" he asks. She nods, shrugs Her caramel colored shoulders. "Shouldn't You be meeting with the Council?"

"Probably."

"But what about the thing, downstairs..."

"The Rapture?" She asks and he nods. "They've got it covered."

He stares at Her a moment longer, during which time She smiles widely at him, flashing perfect white teeth. She's glowing in the small elevator car, beautiful as usual.

"Kind of a gamble letting the Council take care of something so big, isn't it?"

She shrugs again and the elevator slows, dings its arrival in the Lobby. "Honestly, Lucy, what's the worst that could happen?" She brushes past him and steps out into the Lobby, waves at him, and disappears down a hallway he didn't even know existed.

He watches Her walk away, white toga flowing around Her in the way only a piece of heavenly fabric could, and realizes that despite the fact She infuriates him and he's hell bent (not pun intended) on destroying Her, Ellie makes a gorgeous prospect.

"I need a demon to kick," he mutters and heads towards the DOWN escalators.

* * *

She's lounging with a group of wood nymphs, discussing serious matters of the heart(2), when Metatron finds Her. He looks distraught and disheveled, not his usual unflustered self at all. God sighs.

"Let Me guess," She says as he pauses to catch his breath, "the Council fucked it up."

He nods, taps his nose, and says "ding, ding, ding". He takes a final deep breath, calms himself, and pulls himself up to his full height (all eight feet of it).

"They got caught up in an argument over who would bring what to the apocalypse's after-party and they completely forgot to call Vulcan and Poseidon to get things moving."

God stares at him, Her features slack. She should have expected this, really. This particular apocalypse has been giving Her trouble ever since they scheduled the damn thing.

"Which means what, exactly?"

"The Rapture's been a little...postponed."

God takes a gulp of meade from Her oversized cup, then looks at Meta. "Well, shit," She says.

* * *

A few Pearly Gates hours later, God finds Herself once again in an elevator with the Prince of Darkness. She smiles sweetly at him as he steps on board and the doors close behind him. He once again hits the "L" button and the elevator begins its descent.

"How goes the apocalypse?" he asks, his back to Her.

"Fine," She says.

"I heard Your beloved Council screwed the pooch with the Rapture."

"I'd imagine with ears that large, you hear a lot." Said ears flush a bright shade of purple and God grins at the back of his head. "No need to worry, Lucy. I've righted things, gotten the end of the world back on track."

He looks at Her over his shoulder, a small smile on his lips. "Council members fighting over food dishes, Ellie? Tut tut. Seems to me like You need someone who knows what they're doing with an apocalypse." He puffs out his chest a little. "I'm at Your service, Ellie. The End of Days is a big deal; anything You need, just let me know. I'd hate for it to fall apart - especially after all the work You've put into it."

She stares at him, putting pieces of the puzzle together, and when She arrives at the conclusion She seriously considers slapping him. She talks Herself out of it, though, by reasoning She'd have to touch him and there isn't enough holy water in Heaven to make those cooties disappear - again.

The elevator slows, dings to signify its arrival in the Lobby. He moves aside so She can step past him, but She pauses, leans in close so only he can hear Her.

"A piece of advice: The next time you attempt to sabotage a project of Mine," She whispers into his ear, "I'll demote you to janitor and give all your precious Armani suits to Gabriel." She pulls back, smiles widely. "And I'll make sure he wears them during his molting season." She steps out of the elevator.

He watches Her walk away, his gaze red with fury, and in a fit of childish rage, he kicks out at the first thing that happens to cross his path. His foot connects with a solid mass and his vision clears. He looks up and finds himself face-to-belt-buckle with Zeus.

"Did you just kick me?" the god asks and Lucifer swallows, hard.

"Would you believe me if I said it was an accident?" he asks.

Zeus' response is to punt him across the Lobby. He decides, as he's flying through the air, that it's definitely the fastest way he's ever taken to the DOWN escalators.

If only he'd stuck the landing...

(1) "Devil Went Down to Georgia" - c'mon, you know you saw that one coming.

(2) Mostly. Nymphs tend to deal with matters of a whole other part of the anatomy entirely...

"Toasting" to the Easter Season

2011-04-22T08:00:00.003-04:00

Because She's God and because She sometimes wakes up a little too late to get downstairs for breakfast, Ellie has a small (but well-stocked) kitchen in Her living quarters. Hardwood cabinets, granite countertops, and appliances that haven't even been invented yet on the mortal plane fill up the galley-like space.

This morning, She's toasting bread She "borrowed" from the kitchens the night before while She waits for Her coffee to brew. She's been too busy to put together a shopping list, which means Her well-stocked kitchen is starting to look like a ransacked grocery shop. The bread was just sitting on the counter in the PGC kitchen and it looked too good to pass up - buttery and brown, with flecks of some unknown, yet sweet smelling, spice throughout it. She figured two very specific things: first, that no one would miss a singular loaf of bread (especially a loaf of unleavened bread) and second, that She's the Boss and it doesn't really matter what anyone thinks anyway.

So She took it with Her.

Her coffee finishes brewing just as the front door opens.

"You decent?" a voice calls out into the apartment.

God rolls Her eyes, pulls out an extra coffee cup. "Yes, Michael. I'm decent."

Michael rounds the corner with Jesus in tow and God nearly drops the coffee cup. She doesn't often see Her half-brother(1), so it's always a bit of a shock when he shows up.

"Look who I found, roaming the corridors this morning," Michael says, grinning like the Minotaur who ate the unsuspecting Greek kid.

Jesus waves and God does the calendar math in Her head(2). When She finally realizes what day it is, She frowns.

"Well, shit," She says. "It's April."

Michael's smile widens, if that's even possible. "Yup."

Jesus sniffs the air. "What smells so good?" he asks.

"I'm making toast," God says, distracted. She looks at Michael. "Why didn't you remind Me it was Good Friday?"

He shrugs. "Because I work in the Guardian Angel Division," he says. "You have a secretary, Ellie...it isn't my fault she's a crazy lady in a suit of holy armor."(3)

"Hey, I'm not the one who buried her in that damn suit of armor," God says. "I suggested a nice peasant dress, something comfortable, but you know how the French are."

"Seriously, what kind of bread is that?" Jesus asks, nearing the toaster. "It smells amazing."

"I found it down in the kitchens, some kind of unleavened loaf they were experimenting with." Michael raises his eyebrows at her. "Oh please. It isn't stealing if it's My damn kitchen."

Jesus stops, looks at Her. "Unleavened?" he asks. She nods.

"You found a loaf of unleavened bread in the kitchens the night before Good Friday?"(4) Michael asks, the corners of his mouth curving up in a decidedly mischievous smirk.

"I guess." Michael starts to laugh. She looks at Jesus, is concerned when She sees Her half-brother's gone pale. "What?"

"Ellie," Michael says, wiping his eyes, "think about it. You're literally toasting the 'body' of Christ."

It takes Her a second or two, but She eventually gets it. Good Friday, the Resurrection(5), Easter Sunday...She has it all written down on a calendar somewhere. She purses Her lips, frowns at Michael, then turns to look at Jesus. He looks like he might be sick on the floor of Her kitchen.

"I can't believe You've got my body in that toaster," he says, staring at the appliance in horror. "That's just so wrong..."

Leave it to Jesus to be the drama queen in the room. Ellie rolls Her eyes. "Good lord, it's just bread. Not your actual body." He protests and She shakes Her head, afro dancing wilding around Her head. "Just think about it, Jesus. You've been dead for a loooong time. I'd imagine that by now your body would taste like bad mushrooms and smell like stinky feet."

He regains a little color in his cheeks thanks to the indignation of being told he'd taste like fungus and unwashed toes. "Have You no sense of decency?!" he cries and Michael has to excuse himself he's laughing so hard.

God sighs, annoyed. She decides to play along, though.

"You're right," She says. "I'm being terribly insensitive and I'm sorry." She reaches out, places a hand on Her half-brother's shoulder and squeezes it in what She hopes is a comforting gesture.

He relaxes slightly. "Thank You, Ellie. That means a lot."

"And if it's any consolation," She says, the toast popping up at that precise moment, "your unleavened body really does smell wonderful." She takes a bite of the toast, winks at him. "Tastes pretty heavenly, too."

"I hate You."

She smiles, pats his cheek. "Aw, sweetie, of course you do. We're related." She opens a cabinet door, looks inside. "Now I know I've got a nice bottle of red wine around here somewhere..."

(1) Jesus spends a fair amount of time on Earth, working on different projects. Ministries, random miracles, circus shows, things like that. He also has a rap album that's due to drop later this month. He turns water into wine and he lays fat beats, yo.

(2) Pearly Gates time moves slower than Earth time. That's why God only gets about two hours of sleep every night - otherwise, She'd be three weeks behind on taking care of the faithful and She'd never hear the end of it from Metatron. He nags Her enough as it is.

(3) Joan of Arc...holy martyr...Catholic saint...administrative assistant to God in the afterlife. Makes you seriously reconsider penance, doesn't it?

(4) A large percentage of Earthly Christians forgo the thin, paper-tasting wafers during the Easter season and instead make a sweet unleavened loaf. The ingredients all have symbolic meaning in some religious context or another, but as far as Ellie's concerned, it's a whole bunch of stuff mixed in a bowl that ends up tasting pretty damn good.

(5) Ellie once referenced The Dawn of the Dead in front of Jesus and he didn't speak to Her for three days. She wasn't suggesting he was a zombie, just that he might enjoy a movie full of them. Yeesh...talk about touchy.

Even God Occasionally Takes a Night Off

2011-03-14T13:38:00.003-04:00

If there's such a thing as an Olympian Orgy Room on Earth, Claire thinks it might just be Las Vegas on a Friday night.(1) She's surrounded by bodies - young, middle-aged, old - all in various states of undress and all headed in the direction of pounding bass, waterfall bars, five star restaurants, and every stage show known to mankind.(2)

Claire is not a Vegas kind of girl. The lights and glamour of the city hold very little appeal for her. In fact, she wouldn't even be there if it wasn't for her new job in acquisitions at the library in Detroit. Her boss caught wind of an estate sale being held at the Lied Library on the University of Nevada campus and when he found out there would be a collection of very rare - and very very sketchy - first editions up for auction, he booked Claire's ticket before she could even say she had plans for the weekend. Which she did. Because she has a life outside the library. On rare occasions.

Dammit.

So instead of sitting on her couch watching reruns of The X-Files and painting her toenails an obscene and unnatural shade of green, she's playing blackjack at a table in the Bellagio and wondering if her boss would mind if she broke into the minibar in her room.

"They'll most likely fire you," a familiar voice says from her left and she turns to see Metatron sitting on the stool next to her. He's wearing a pale lavender suit that fits his lanky frame perfectly (she's always wondered how, exactly, one tailors clothing to a seven-foot tall unearthly creature) and racking a small stack of chips between his hands.

"I thought you promised to stop reading minds," Claire says. "And could you maybe, next time, wear a less conspicious suit? People are staring."

People are, in fact, staring, but not at the suit. Sure the suit is obnoxious in an Easter Sunday kind of way, but people are staring because Metatron is seven feet tall. Another foot and his head would be brushing the ceiling of the casino.

Meta smiles, drops the chips onto the table, and motions for the dealer to deal him in. "It's a Friday night in Vegas and you're sitting here, all alone, playing blackjack in the quiet corner of the casino." The card that's facing up at him is a jack. Claire frowns at the three in front of her. "Shouldn't you be out cavorting with the sinful hoardes?"

"Shouldn't you be taking dictation and simpering like a good puppy?"

Meta pouts. "My, my, aren't we particularly nasty today."

Claire sighs and her shoulders slump. "I hate Vegas." The dealer flips their covered cards and there's an ace sitting next to Meta's jack. The last of Claire's chips are added to the Voice of God's meager stack and she frowns. "Hate it."

* * *

He treats her to a drink in a jazz club nearby, a jazz club she didn't know existed. The emptiness of its interior would suggest that no one else in the immediate vicinity knows it exists, either.

"Why do I get the feeling this isn't usually here," she says as they sit down at a little table.

Meta's smile is all the confirmation Claire needs. "What can I say, Claire? Even the Earth-bound representatives need a respite from the daily grind." He leans back in his chair, stretches his long legs out. "We pop in for the good music, the shop talk, and the cheap drinks." He points to the stage where a band is setting up. "On occasion, the entertainment is good. I think you'll like who's on this evening," he says. "She's really quite good."

"I think I'm going to head back to my room."

"Claire, sit and drink and enjoy yourself. Good lord, child. Even God takes a night off on occasion."

Claire scoffs. "As if."

And then, just to prove her wrong, the lights lower, the band strikes up an old standard, and Ellie Herself steps out onto the stage in a dress that's mostly plunging neckline and Claire chokes on her drink.

"Told ya."

* * *

God joins them after Her set. A short waitress who resembles a nun Claire used to know in high school swings by and drops a martini glass full of amber liquid off in front of Her.

"I had no idea you were in Vegas!"(3) God says, wrapping Her caramel hands around the glass and elegantly taking a drink. "Isn't it just marvelous?"

Claire processes that statement - and the current situation - in what feels like eons but is actually only a few seconds. When she's able to once again form a coherent thought, she frowns at her Boss.

"Didn't You once level a city just like this place?" she asks and Meta snorts gin up his nose in an effort to keep from spitting it out his mouth. He shakes his head at her while he violently coughs on the alcoholic nasal spray.

God frowns. "I'm quite sure I have no idea what you're talking about, Claire."

"Sodom and Gomorra?" Claire says, eyebrow raised. "Ring any bells?"

God purses Her ruby lips, spins the glass in Her hand while She stares at Her prophet and contemplates the implication. Eventually, She shrugs.

"We all go through phases, Claire." She takes another dainty sip of Her drink - a Manhattan, Claire thinks, though it could be a whiskey sour - and smiles. "For instance, you went through a New Kids on the Block phase."

"Are You seriously comparing my adoration of NKOTB to Your leveling of a Vegas-like city?" God nods and Claire looks to Meta for help. "Don't tell me you didn't go ga-ga over Jonathan Knight."

He sighs, lost in thought. A slow smile creeps over his face and his eyes close. Claire lets him sit there for a few seconds, God watching him with laughter in Her bright green eyes. Eventually, Claire snaps her fingers and Meta opens his eyes, frowns.

"It's really just six of one, half a dozen of the other, Claire." He brushes invisible lint from his pant leg, affects an air of self-importance. "Evil is evil. Only the venue changes."

"I'm back on, kids," God says, finishing Her drink in one long swig, and then leaving them at the table.

Claire points at Meta once God is out of earshot. "You're a pussy."

"Maybe I am, maybe I'm not. Doesn't matter." He leans in, his voice full of conspiracy. "Now, let's talk a little more about Mr. Knight and his New Kids on the Block pals, shall we? I'm a sucker for a well dressed man singing 'Step by Step' while gyrating his hips."

* * *

She stays for another set, begrudgingly admits to both herself and Meta that not only can God sing but She's solid entertainment - even with the constant possibility of a mortifying wardrobe malfunction. Eventually, after four drinks and an overly profound conversation on the sexuality of 80s and 90s pop bands, she makes her way back to her hotel room, thanks mostly to Meta and his ridiculously long arms.

Meta deposits her in her room with hazy instructions on water consumption and the proper number of aspirin needed to stave off a Hell of a hangover in the morning. He pulls her shoes off and she curls up on her side on the bed.

"You need to have more fun," he says as he tucks her in, kisses her forehead.

"I'm a librarian," she slurs. "We're fucking made of fun."

"Amen to that."

(1) Not that she'd know what an Olympian Orgy Room looks like, mind you, but she's heard rumors...from people...

(2) There's an act where a guy with a red afro wears a gold dress while balancing a bowl of fruit on his head. The little gray dudes from Titan love it.

(3) She really didn't. In fact, the last time She'd checked Claire's schedule, it had been 1992 on Earth and Claire was in algebra class, pining over Tommy Graham. Oh, how time flies...

Gone But Not Forgotten

2011-03-04T08:00:00.001-05:00

Hi there. I'm Claire, as in THE Claire, as in the name on the header above this rambling bit of prose.

Look up.

See it, there? Yup. That's me.

I'm taking over from the author for a few paragraphs in order to participate in this blogfest thing that the author's friend Erinn put together.(1)

Erinn asked bloggers to talk about their five favorite shows that are no longer airing new episodes. This was a little tough for me, only because I haven't really watched much TV over the years due to my prophetic duties (and a distinct lack of cable throughout college), but I think I've put together a solid list.(2)

1. The Harvard Diaries - a professor of quantum physics and her robot dinosaur, Rufus, mend holes in the space/time fabric. It swear it was the funniest thing I've ever watched, which may have been why it was cancelled...it was supposed to be a drama.

2. Sunrise Yoga Studio - a sitcom about a family of Indian immigrants who run a yoga studio in Detroit. You wouldn't think that premise would be funny, but it worked...kind of.

3. Trixie the Zombie Assassin(3) - a young woman from Texas is trained as a zombie assassin and her life takes her to a town called Moongrove in South Carolina where she shoots zombies. They did a mime episode and the zombies were spectacular, miming their need for brains. Truly good stuff.

4. Elohim's Variety Hour - this used to play Upstairs, but God got kind of bored with it, so She yanked it from the schedule. The few times I caught it, though, I loved it. Especially when She'd have Michael co-hosting. Like a heavenly Rowan & Martin.(4)

5. The Ex-Files - a woman works with a private detective to find all of her ex-boyfriends. Then she sits down with them and asks what went wrong in their relationships. This show lasted a season and a half before the producers finally realized how depressing it was and cancelled their own show. I liked it, though.(5) The lead character had moxie.

So there you go, my favorite Gone But Not Forgotten shows. The author will be back in a few days and I'm sure she'll have new adventures planned for all of us. In the meantime, read through some of the others and leave a little love.

I'm off to convince an atheist that God exists and She's a little put out he doesn't believe in Her.

Wish me luck!

(1) This is freaking you out a little, isn't it? The character of the blog talking to you, the reader of the blog, like she's a real person? Don't worry - the strangeness will eventually wear off...and if it doesn't, there's a lovely little pill called clozapine that should help make it easier.

(2) You might know some of them, but because I'm a fictional character living in a fictional universe, the chances of that are pretty slim. Unless you're a fictional character living in the same fictional universe in which case, we should get coffee.

(3) I've been told there's a different version of this in your universe, something called Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Sounds neat.

(4) Oh yeah, both universes had Rowan & Martin's Laugh-In, thank God.

(5) I was trying out anti-depressants at the time, just for the fun of it. That may have contributed to my appreciation.

The Bow and Arrow of Love

2011-02-14T09:20:00.004-05:00

There is something to be said for waking up alone in the middle of one's bed, arms and legs akimbo without regard. Claire Rogers has, for most of her adult life, spent her nights and mornings just this way. Being a prophet has its downsides, least of which is the permanent impact on her social life.

She finds it difficult to date when there's the possibility she might be called upon by God to convert a handful of atheists at any point in time. The minion in graduate school understood her plight - he had a similar one of his own - but the reality of the situation was simple: he was a minion, she was a prophet, and had they carried on seriously they might have both ended up without a job. She's ashamed to admit that she hasn't gotten laid since. It's starting to wear on her.(1)

These are the thoughts that run through Claire's brain as she lays in bed and stares at the pockmarked ceiling of her apartment in Detroit's only safe neighborhood. She needs to get out of bed and head into work but she can't bring herself to do it. The women she works with have planned a Valentine's Day luncheon and Claire knows there will be decorations and obscene amounts of heart cutouts in shades of pink and red.

"I think I'd rather lie here and wilt," she says to her empty bedroom. Her alarm clock produces a shrill ring as a rebuttal to her argument and she claps a hand down over it, silencing it effectively for the moment. She has ten more minutes to come up with a valid reason for staying in bed. "I could call and say I have the plague or that I'm allergic to candy hearts."(2)

There's a knock on her window and she sits up, hair sticking in every direction but down. Another series of knocks, these more insistent than the last. She frowns when she realizes where they're coming from - the window across the room - and she bolts out of bed. Even before she rips the curtains open, Claire has an idea of what's knocking on her window.

Cupid stares at her, cherubic face grinning like a maniac on cocaine, and he raises a little pudgy hand and waves at her. "Can I come in?" he calls through the window.

"Oh fuck off," she says and closes the curtains.

* * *

Cupid follows her to work, hovering over her car. She's pretty sure she's the only one who can see him, which just makes it all the more wonderful.(3) She parks in her designated space at the library and throws her bag out the window as a decoy. There's a thwap and a swish and a red tipped arrow lands in the center of her leather briefcase.

"Sonovabitch," the little bastard says from above her car.

She closes the window and gets out, locks the door behind her. It'll take him two minutes to reload - he still hasn't quite gotten the hang of the new bow and arrows Venus gave him for Christmas - and Claire can sprint from the parking lot to the front door in less than a minute, even in heels. She grabs her bag on the way past it, pulls out the (invisible) arrow, and heads for the library.

"Come on Claire!" Cupid calls after her and she can hear him fighting with the bow and arrow. There's another thwap and this time, instead of hearing an arrow, she hears him cry out in pain. "Ow! Seriously!?"

Claire starts to giggle mid-stride and she nearly wipes out on the ice at the bottom of the front steps. She pauses to look behind her and regrets her decision. Cupid's managed to get the arrow into the bow and he's pulled back the string.

"It's just a love arrow!" Cupid yells.

"And Hell is just a sauna!"

He lets go of the string and the arrow flies toward her. She ducks and it lands in the solid wood door of the library with a loud thud. She waves at the little monster and heads inside, safe once more.

* * *

"Did You sick Cupid on me this year?" she asks, her voice hushed in the hopes none of her co-workers will hear her and think she's crazy. "Are You that desperate to get me married off?"

God scoffs on the other end of the phone line.(4) "Please. If I wanted to marry you off, I'd do it myself and without the subtly of Cupid."

"A pudgy white dude in a diaper with wings is not subtle. It's the opposite of subtle."

"Maybe Aphrodite's meddling."

Claire sighs. "For the hundredth time, Cupid belongs to Venus. You're thinking of Eros."

"I can't keep the Greeks and Romans straight, Claire. There's too many of them and, quite frankly, they all look alike."

"Wow...you realize that's maybe just a little racist..."

"Look, I'll talk to Venus - and Aphrodite, just for the hell of it - and see what's up." There's a pause and Claire suspects something may, in fact, be up - but not with the Roman and Greek side of the equation. "Or maybe the fat bastard is just doing it because he's bored and your name came up in conversation."

Claire narrows her eyes at her empty office. "Is that an admission of guilt?" she asks.

"What's that, Claire? You're breaking up..."

The line goes dead and she pulls the phone away from her ear, glares at it. There's a knock on her window and she growls in frustration. She pulls a pen out of her desk, grabs a piece of paper, and hastily writes a note.(5) She then strides across the room purposefully and slams the paper up against the window. When she thinks he's had enough time to read the words, she pulls it away and motions for Cupid to fly away.

"Well you didn't have to be so mean about it," the little man says, his voice muffled by the window glass. He sniffs and flies off.

Claire feels the weight of guilt settle on her shoulders and she sighs, slumps into her chair defeated. "That little bastard made me feel bad about yelling at him," she says. The guilt puts on a little extra weight. "Sonovabitch." She lowers her forehead to her desk and bumps it against the hardwood a couple of times, for good measure.

* * *

He's sitting on the hood of her car when she leaves work later that night. He looks tired and he's using his bow to prop himself up. Claire's footsteps falter when she sees him and she sighs.

"Go ahead," she says. "Just hit me with the damn arrow and get it over with."

He shakes his head. "I ran out of arrows a few minutes ago. Eros will have to get the rest of the sad singles tonight."

Claire frowns. "We're not all sad, you know."

Cupid perks up at this. "You mean you're not unhappy with your single status?"

"Who told you I was?"

He blushes, visible even in the dimness of twilight. "God might have mentioned it once or twice."

"Ellie meddles where She's not necessarily needed." She unlocks the driver's side door of her car. "I'm sorry I threatened you."

He waves her off. "No apologies needed. You didn't want to be struck with an arrow and I was being stubborn. I have a feeling we averted disaster."

Claire nods. "Go home and be with Psyche," she says. "That's what today is all about, right? Spending time with the one you love."

Cupid nods, floats off the hood of her car. "I can't promise Eros won't try anything," he says. "So you might want to say indoors for the rest of the evening." He waves and disappears into the ether of the Detroit evening.

* * *

God is uncorking a bottle of very expensive, very old, red wine when Claire walks into her apartment. She holds the bottle up with a smile.

Claire points at Her. "You're busted," she says.

God's smile fades and She sets the wine bottle down on the countertop. "I take it you managed to avoid the arrows."

"Indeed. I had a short conversation with Cupid just after I left work this evening."

God affects an indiferent air as She pours the wine into glasses. "Did you?"

Claire smiles in spite of herself. "Do me a favor and stop meddling in my love life. You're terrible at it."

"Says you."

"Says everyone." God hands her a glass of wine and they clink their glasses together. "Thanks for caring, though," she says.

God's smile reappears. "Kind of My job."

(1) Even her mother has noticed, from a thousand miles away.

(2) This is not a complete lie. She isn't actually allergic to the candy hearts, but instead to the sayings imprinted on them. For example, when her boyfriend of six months during her sophomore year of college told her he loved her, she broke out in hives and hyperventilated. It was the easiest break up she ever had.

(3) Sarcasm definitely implied.

(4) There's suprisingly good reception from Earth to Heaven, but only a handful of people know God's direct line. For good reason, too. The religious zealots get on Her almight nerves even without knowing Her direct line.

(5) GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE BEFORE I BREAK AN ARROW OFF IN YOUR ASS. To paraphrase...

Conversations with God - Everything You Ever Wanted to Know

2011-02-07T14:48:00.013-05:00

1. What is Your favorite word?

Hmmmm...that's a tough one. I invented a lot of the really great ones, like 'purple' and 'melon baller'. Yeah...'melon baller' might be my favorite combination of words. I have no idea what it means, but something tells Me it's massively important.

2. What is Your least favorite word?

Lucifer. It's like spikes on My tongue whenever I have to say it, so I try very hard never to say it. I call him Lucy instead. He loves it. Seriously.

3. What turns You on?

I'm God...I'm not sure I'm supposed to get turned on...and the last time it happened, well, you know...that being said, though, I'm partial to messy hair and Cuban cigars.

4. What turns You off?

Lucifer. Ack. See? Spikes on My tongue...gross. Can I get a glass of water and maybe a toothbrush?

5. What is Your favorite curse word?

Son of a Hell whore. It kind of kills two birds with one stone - it's both a curse word and an insult. I use it mostly when I'm in meetings with the demons and, occasionally, when the Mormon office manager starts in on Me about My drinking habits. The demons think it's a term of endearment; the Mormon office manager, not so much.

6. What sound or noise do You love?

The quiet of an empty afternoon, when the angels are running things smoothly, and all the gods and goddesses are getting along so there isn't any chatter coming down the hallways. I can do my nails, listen to some Fleetwood Mac, and relax. It's lovely.

7. What sound or noise do You hate?

The whiny undertone of Lucifer's voice. You're sensing a pattern here, aren't you?

8. What profession other than Your own would you like to attempt?

I'd love to try bounty hunting. I've seen that television program, the one down on Earth, and I think it would be fun to go around busting perps. That's what they're called, right? Perps? I'd be badass...a badass perp buster. I've got the perfect shoes for a job like that.

9. What profession would You not like to do?

Teach. Children have these tiny little hands - probably My fault, to be honest - and I'm maybe a little afraid of tiny hands. Maybe. I don't quite know what I'd do if I was surrounded by them on a daily basis. I don't think I'd be sane for very long...

10. If Heaven exists, what would You like to hear God say when You reach the gates?

Um, hello? I am God. And I never hang out at the front door. Saint Peter is super territorial and he gets kind of pissed if you hang around when he's doing his job, which is all the freaking time. I usually just say hello, though, when I eventually meet the new arrivals. Sometimes I shake hands. Sometimes I hug. All depends on My mood, really. One time there was a chest bump and some high fiving. The guy had died after helping to win the Stanley Cup and I'm a hocky fan - it seemed only right to give him a nice welcome, especially with the puck lodged in his forehead.

This is dedicated to my friend Erinn, as it was her idea and she deserves most of the credit. Check her out at Something Else to Distract Me!

Author's Note: The 99th Page Blogfest

2011-01-27T11:13:00.012-05:00

Hi. This is the author (see the photo to your right - yes, your right) just stepping in for a moment or two to do some fourth wall breakage (with my inherent clumsiness, this is a literal and figurative possibility). I wanted to let you all know that I'm participating in this thing called The 99th Page Blogfest.

"But hark, what craziness be this, oh Great Author of all things Claire?"

(What? You guys don't talk like that? I'm so very disappointed...)

Well, eager beavers, let me explain (No, no. That'll take too long. Let me sum up...). It's this thing being run by the following lovely ladies: Erinn, Alicia, Holly, Pam and Quita. The gist of it is the authors around the blogosphere post the 99th page of their manuscipts and you, the readers, are asked to decide the following:

1. Would you turn to page 100?
2. Why or why not?
3. Based on what you've read, would you buy the book?

So, without further ado my lovely minions, I respectfully submit the 99th page (which is half a page, as it's the start of Chapter 10) of The (Absolutely, Positively) True Adventures of Claire Elizabeth Rogers to you, the readers.

10

“Please form a single line and report to the kiosks on the left for assignment.”

The line shifts and Jack hollers to Claire that they’re finally moving. When she doesn’t respond immediately, he looks over and finds the area vacant. No Metatron, no Claire, nothing but white orbs of light and wings. She’s abandoned him, left him for the masses, and gone off on her own to accomplish what he – literally – gave his life to help her do.

“Sonovabitch,” he swears. The elderly woman next to him in line smacks his arm.

“Stop cussing,” she says before moving along past him.

He sticks his tongue out at her when her back is turned.

*Additional house points to those of you who comment with the correct movie and/or television references tucked away in this post. Hint: there's only two of them.

Yo Momma So Old, She Knows God (Literally)

2011-01-19T10:00:00.004-05:00

Katharine Rogers is, or was to be technically precise, the daughter of a blacksmith in Ireland. If given a chance to calculate her approximate age, Kate would tell you to borrow forty-five of your closest friends and ask them to each count to ten. Then she'd ask you to subtract seven.(1) For those of you good with math, it's a kinder way of saying she's currently 443 years old.

How Katharine became an angel in the employ of God is a simple story. She arrived in the offices of Heaven, Incorporated shortly after tripping over a discarded hammer in her father's smithy and falling in just such a way that she impaled herself on a newly forged sword. One minute she was bleeding all over the floor and the next she was standing in a richly furnished room, wearing a white dress, and keeping company with a caramel colored Amazon.

"Good morning, Katharine. I'm God." God was always eloquent in Her opening words to the newly deceased. She'd had years of practice and had finally perfected Her tone of voice (gentle and soothing), Her facial expressions (calm and smiling), and Her tact.

Katharine, on the other hand, was not quite accustomed to being dead and therefore had none of the tact and grace of the deity before her. In fact, Katharine's first words to God at such an awe-inspiring moment in her existence were thus:

"Christ almighty, that hurt like a motherfucker."(2)

* * *

While Katharine was occupied with the New Hire Orientation (mandated by the Pearly Gates Corporation for all newly deceased members of the staff), God did a little research. She discovered that while Her newest angel had been alive, she'd been very good at three things: tying knots, building fires, and pounding metal.(3) So God examined Her current needs in Heaven, Inc. and realized that Saint Eligius needed an assistant out in the Holy Smithy and Katharine, with her previous experience, was the perfect fit. Especially given her cursing proclivities and expertise with a hammer.

Kate, however, did not agree and as soon as God was finished explaining Her plan, the newly annointed angel threw an unholy fit.

"You're kidding me, right?" she asked. "I spent my existence on Earth in a smithy, covered in soot and ash and who knows what the fuck else because smithys are attached to stables and stables are full of horses, and now You want me to spend my afterlife in one, too?" She pulled at her bright red hair. "Do You have any idea what smoke does to hair?" she asked.

God honestly didn't, having never spent too much time out in the stables or the smithy. Big hammers and horses were never really Her thing - She was secretly a little happy when the dragons ate the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse's steeds.(4)

She sighed. "Well, then, where would you like to work?" She asked.

Katharine frowned. "I'd kind of thought I'd retire," she said, "seeing as how I'm dead and supposedly in paradise."

God decided to give it one more try. "How do you feel about libraries?" She asked.

"They're filled with books, right?" Katharine asked, and God nodded, feeling encouraged. "I've never really read a book, just used them as kindling."

God pinched the bridge of Her nose, sighed into the ether, and counted to ten before continuing the conversation. "Go sit in the library," She said, Her voice far calmer than She actually felt. "Read something, and for the love of Me, don't light anything on fire and don't touch anything that isn't supposed to be touched."

Katharine considered it, shrugged. "Sounds easy enough."

* * *

In the first fifty or so Pearly Gates years that Katharine worked in the Heavenly Library, she managed to destroy a handful of "priceless" objects, most of them statues or sculptures. It got to the point where God had to create a separate area to store the art, simply to preserve it from Katharine's clumsiness. Everytime She heard the words "uh-oh" and "my bad" filter down the hallway to Her office, God would pray to Herself that it wasn't something invaluable.

And everytime, it was...because that was just the kind of lucky Katharine was. The last straw was when she almost broke Pandora's Box(5) and Zeus freaked out, threw a lightning bolt, and broke God's favorite stained glass window.

"That's it!" She hollered, striding into the library with purpose and fervor. "You're too clumsy to work up here, Kate," She said. "There's too much to break, too much accidental havoc for you to wreak."

Katharine, who'd been enjoying a ham sandwich while perusing a copy of Carl Jung's Answer to Job(6), looked up and frowned. "Are You firing me?" she asked, ignoring the glob of mustard that fell onto the page in front of her.

God stared at the mustard glob and attempted to keep Her temper under control. She allowed Meta's voice to remind Her that there was a mountain of paperwork involved in smiting one's own employee and that no amount of personal satisfaction was worth that much inconvenience.

"No, Kate," She said, breathing steadily through Her nose, "I'm not firing you." She had a sudden idea. "I'm promoting you." She smiled a manic smile and motioned for Katharine to follow Her out of the library and away from all the breakable things. "I think I've found the exact place where your...talents...will be better appreciated."

Katharine took a bite of her sandwich. "It's the smithy, isn't it?" she asked in defeat.

God's manic smile widened and She shook Her head, wrapped an arm around Katharine's shoulders. She squeezed the angel to Her side with a little more force than necessary and the sandwich popped out of Katharine's hands and fell on the thousand year old Persian rug just inside the library door. God stared at the sandwich and the mustard stain and fought against screaming.

"Oh, Katie, it's so much better than the smithy..."

* * *

As it turned out, God's plan for Katharine was, indeed, so much better than the smithy. God told her to close her eyes and when she next opened them, she was standing on a city street surrounded by tall buildings, loud people, and metal boxes on wheels that consistently honked when they were unhappy.

"Where the bejesus am I?" she asked herself, confused and just a touch terrified. When she'd died, there had been dirt roads, horses and carts, and her village had been inhabited by sixty three and a half people (there was a leper living there). This was so far removed from what she remembered that her first thought was she'd been sent to Hell (Hades & Purgatory, Ltd).

"You're in Boston," a man said from somewhere near her and she turned her head to see him. He was tall, good looking, with a shock of black unruly hair that made him look like he'd just been kicked in the stomach by a goat. At Katharine's confused expression, he elaborated. "Massachusetts," he said. She still looked confused. "The United States of America. Planet Earth."

"Sonovabitch," she muttered. "And the date?" she asked a little more loudly.

"October third, 1973." He smiled and she found she rather liked his smile. "It's a Wednesday, if that helps."

"I always liked Wednesdays," she said, mostly to herself.

"They're so much nicer than Thursdays. I'm Harry," the man said and stuck out his hand. She looked at it, shyly took it in her own. "Harry Rogers."

"Katharine O'Malley," she said. "I'm sorry, but I'm having a wee bit of an odd moment."

"I can tell." He looked at her. "Ireland?" he asked.

"What about it?"

"Your accent. Is it Irish?"

She nodded. "Started out that way. I've been elsewhere since, though."

He sensed a story and he pointed over his shoulder. "Can I buy you a cup of coffee?" he asked. "I know whenever I'm having an odd moment, coffee tends to straighten things out for me."

"I suppose I can do that," she said. "But don't try anything funny."

In spite of the serious expression on her face, Harry laughed. "I'm an English professor," he said and she just looked at him. "I don't think I'm capable of trying anything funny."

Katharine nodded, smiled a little. "That's okay," she said. "I'm an angel. I don't think I'm allowed to try anything funny."

Harry stared at her, considered what she'd just said, and decided that not only was she one hundred percent serious, but he was ninety-nine percent sure he believed her. He also had the fleeting romantic thought that he'd marry her some day.

And he did.

(1) Not seven friends, but seven digits and however you decide to subtract them is completely up to you...

(2) Katharine, for all intents and purposes, has the vocabulary of a drunken sailor on shore leave. 'Golly' and 'gee whiz' just don't have a place in a smithy.

(3) This isn't a euphemism. She actually pounded metal, with a hammer, like a blacksmith. It was the late 16th century; pounding anything had a very different connotation than it did starting in the early 21st century.

(4) Especially Death's. There's something incredibly unnatural about a little bald man riding a skeletal horse that has strands of its own flesh hanging off it.

(5) Pandora's "Box" was actually an incredibly heavy stone urn. Why? Because the Greeks, who were always a little more difficult than all the other religions, never used boxes. "Can't stand square objects," Zeus said by way of explanation. "If I'm going to store something, I'd rather put it in something round. Less sharp edges." Seriously, that was verbatim.

(6) God likes to keep all of Her press pieces close to Her, even the bad ones...especially the bad ones. Where do you think She gets the "naughty" list from?

The Tiny Hands of Fate (or an Approximation Thereof)

2010-12-07T16:00:00.008-05:00

Metatron is used to having terrible days. He's a glorified mediator most of the time and constantly having to deal with fighting immortals and creatures (both natural and unnatural) takes its toll on his cheery disposition. There are days when God tasks him with explaining things to those gods and goddesses who have a hard time understanding Her, either because they've chosen not to or because they don't necessarily speak the same language and Meta ends up on the wrong end of someone's lightning bolt (Zeus) or hammer (Thor) or googly-eyed fern (Charles Darwin).

Sometimes, though, it isn't an aspect of Meta's job that leads him into a terrible day, but instead he simply wakes up and things rollercoaster downhill from there. For instance, when he woke up this morning, the Voice of God knew he was going to have a craptastic day from the start. He hit his head on a low-hanging rosary as he was getting out of bed. Then, on his way to the bathroom, he stubbed his toe on the oversized cross in his hallway and the hanging idol of Jesus laughed at him.(1) He's learned over these last few thousand years that when a molded stone imitation of the World's Savior laughs at you, it's never a good sign - especially in light of Jesus' off-beat sense of humor.(2)

He survived his morning meetings - all six of them - and is currently standing in the line to the dessert bar in the Pearly Gates Corporation's lunchroom. Dionysus had been in charge of the last meeting, a twenty-minute diatribe regarding the catering for the annual Fall Harvest Festival in the Greek and Roman levels, and all the god could talk about was the Death by Chocolate cake the lunchroom had planned to serve with lunch. Now, three hours later, all Meta wants for lunch is a glass of milk and a slice of Death by Chocolate Cake. The minion in front of him grabs a bowl of pudding and Meta sees that there's just one slice left. The minion moves out of the way and as Meta reaches out for the plate and that last piece of chocolately goodness, his hand is swatted away by one of the many arms of Shiva, which then swoops in and steals the plate.

He whirls on the Hindu god. "Did you seriously just smack me so you could get that piece of chocolate cake?" Meta asks, shaking out his injured hand.

Shiva shrugs. He has plates of food in each of his four hands, including the chocolate cake. "Maybe," he says. He licks chocolate frosting off his finger. "Thanks for the cake, Stringbean," he says.

"Considering the size of your stomach, fatso, you might want to have the fruit cup instead," Meta grumbles.

Shiva looks down at his protruding stomach and shrugs. "I don't know. Seems to me the ladies like it," he says and moves to leave the dessert line.

Meta holds his arm out to block Shiva's retreat. "That's my piece of chocolate cake," he says.

"Oh, in that case," Shiva says and holds the plate out. Meta goes to reach for it but Shiva pulls it out of his reach before he can grab it. "Too slow," the Hindu god says, grinning.

Meta, if asked, will always deny that he threw a plate of coconut cream pie in the face of Shiva the Destroyer. He'll say that the pie came out of nowhere, that someone very kind must have seen what happened with the chocolate cake and felt the need to defend The Voice of God's dessert-time honor. He'll call the Hindu god a liar and a cake thief and he'll demand reparations.

He should have instead remembered he was The Voice of God. It would have made things a lot easier.

* * *

His hands are tiny. They are not usually tiny but are instead usually very long and reminiscent of spider legs in the way the last two bones of each finger curl inwards. With his arms at his sides, the tips of Meta's fingers almost reach his knees.

Today, they're barely poking out the sleeves of his jacket.

"My hands!" he hollers as he runs into God's office, holding the offending appendages up so that She can see them.

She looks up from the stack of intake forms on Her desk and shrieks in terror. "Holy hell, what happened to your hands?!" She asks, Her voice high and panicky. He takes a step towards Her desk and She stands quickly, Her chair falling over as She backs away from him. He stops moving.

"I don't know!" he shouts. "I woke up and they were like this." He waves them and She shrieks again, holds Her own hands up to block him out. He pauses, frowns at Her. "What's wrong with You?" he asks.

"Nothing," She says, smoothing out Her toga and attempting to look put together and calm. He takes another step towards Her and She immediately retreats backward, bumping into the card catalog behind Her desk.(3) "Just stop moving," She says. "Please."

He does as She asks and his arms drop to his sides, his sleeves hiding his now tiny hands. With them out of sight, She seems to lose Her manic edge and come back to Her senses.

"Now, let's think about this rationally." She motions for him to sit in one of Her visitor chairs. She stays standing with Her back against the card catalog. "You started a food fight with Shiva in the lunchroom yesterday," She says and he nods. "He has a penchant for making things small, something you might have remembered before you threw a pie in his face."

"I maintain I didn't throw the pie and even if I had, he deserved it. He took the last piece of chocolate cake, Ellie," Meta whines. "And he smacked me." He mimes his hand being smacked by his other hand and the sight of two tiny hands hitting each other has God wanting to hide under Her desk. A muscle in Her cheek twitches and Meta looks at Her funny. "You're afraid of tiny hands, aren't You?" he asks, suddenly understanding.

"No," She says, instantly flustered. "That's ridiculous. Why would you ask Me something like that?"

"Because You're sitting on top of Your card catalog instead of at Your desk across from me. And these." He waves his hands at Her and She screams before She can stop Herself. He smirks.

"Okay, fine" She says, a little breathless. "I may be a little afraid of tiny hands."

"And by little, you mean...?"

"Very. Bordering on terrified."

"Why?"

"I haven't a clue. Now would you please put those damn things in your pockets so I can get the hell down from here?"

He does as She asks. "The easiest thing to do here, for both of us, is for You to fix it," he says.

She eyes him warily. "I wouldn't even know where to start," She says. "It isn't permanent, though. That much I do know."

Meta's eyes go wide. "You've seen this before, then?"

She nods. "He shrunk Jupiter's head after the god had accidentally bumped into him and spilled his coffee."(4) God hops down off the card catalog and cautiously sits at Her desk. In an effort to focus on anything besides the tiny hands across from Her, She begins signing the intake forms once again. "I really wouldn't worry about it, Meta," She says, not looking up. "I give it a day, or two, tops."

"And if they don't go back to normal, then what?"

"Juno is looking for a new administrative assistant," She says, managing a smile. "I've heard the goatskin armor really grows on you after awhile."

* * *

It lasts six days. He's banned from God's office for the duration of it and because he's always been just slightly inclined to certain acts of mischief, he waves at Her whenever he sees Her around the building. Each time, She shrieks in terror and runs in the opposite direction. It loses its novelty, however, after She throws an alarm clock at his head and he ends up with the actual clockface embedded in his forehead for a couple of hours...during which the dials keep perfect time.

He keeps his hands to himself after that.

He's back in the lunchroom on the seventh day, his hands having returned to their normal size, and he finds himself standing behind an oblivious Shiva in the dessert line. As they near the plates of cakes and cups of puddings, Meta sees the prize - one delectable looking piece of chocolate cake, all by itself. Shiva goes to reach for it and Meta smacks his hand out of the way, grabs the plate off the bar, and turns an evil grin on the Hindu god.

"Ha ha!" he shouts. "I win."

"You do know I'm the Destroyer of Worlds," Shiva says, attempting his best menacing glare. Meta thinks he'd look a lot more imposing if there wasn't a bowl of Jell-o in his second left hand. Whenever he shifts his arms, the blue substance wiggles and it makes Meta want to dance.

"Oh, yes, of course. How silly of me to forget." Meta holds the plate out for Shiva to take. He snatches it back at the last minute, though, and the god's face clouds over. Meta, who's since realized the error of his ways since his first cake-snatching encounter with Shiva, leans in close and uses the voice his maker gave him.

"TOO SLOW!" he bellows and Shiva's perfectly coifed (matted) hair blows straight out from his head. He's left teetering on his bare heels, dazed and confused from the full force of (literally) the Voice of the Voice of God. Most of his lunch items have been blown away, including the blue Jell-o.

"Pleasure doing business with you, Destructor," he says, patting the dazed god on the shoulder as he walks past him. "And thanks for the cake."

(1) A few Earthly years earlier, Meta had done some work at a church in Buenos Aires and as a thank you for all his kind words - which were, in fact, his own words because the message God had sent him downstairs to deliver had needed tweaking before he thought it appropriate to say within the confines of a house of worship - Father Amalda had given him a gigantic rosary and a gilded cross. His sense of honor forbade him from getting rid of them; his sense of interior design, however, begged and pleaded with him to turn them over to the Salvation Army and put up a Georgia O'Keefe instead.

(2) Well, if you'd been strung up on a crucifix, left to die, and had subsequently risen from the dead three days later your funny bone might be just a little left of center, too.

(3) Whatever you do, don't open those drawers. Should you ever find yourself alone in God's office and have the urge to open those drawers, just remember I told you so. And for the record, souls are much easier to take out of a drawer than they are to put back into one. Keep it in mind.

(4) Jupiter's never been right in the head - he's a big, powerful god who's afraid of just about everything in the known (and, at times, unknown) universe, including bunny rabbits - but for the three days his head was shrunken, he seemed almost normal. His wife, Juno, has been scheming to have it happen again ever since.

Breaking the Fourth Wall...Sort Of

2010-11-18T08:30:00.002-05:00

Hi. It's me, Meg, the author whose photograph is posted to the right (your right, while you're staring at the computer) of this little blurb of chaotic text. I'm taking a moment to break the fourth wall (sort of) and let all my readers (all 22 of you glorious people) know that The Unbelievable Adventures of Claire Elizabeth Rogers is now a Facebook page.

It's hit the big time (seven people like it as of this morning - amazing!).

So, if you're a reader with a Facebook page and you feel like clicking on the Pearly Gates Corporation logo to the right (still your right), you'll be transported to a magical land of still-under-construction-please-bear-with-me Facebook awesomeness. And if you're a fan of the blog, you can become a fan of the Facebook page.

Hell, you can become a fan of the Facebook page even if you're not a fan of the blog...though it begs the question of how you found either in the first place...hmmm.

Anyway, this is a big thank you to all you wonderfully nice people who continue to read Claire and Company's many adventures (some good, some terrible, some hilarious). And I can say, without a doubt, that the third draft of the novel (The [Absolutely, Positively] True Adventures of a Religious Prophet) will be finished by the New Year - if it isn't, I give you all full permission to throw rotten fruit at me.

That's right. Rotten fruit.

Now click on something and have a happy Thursday.

-Meg

The IDIOT'S Guide to Getting Bounced out of Eden

2010-11-10T12:58:00.012-05:00

In the beginning, God created the universe and the Earth and the animals and, eventually, man. So says the Bible.(1)

In actual fact, She really only created the Earth – by accident, no less - before jaunting off for a supposedly much deserved spa vacation and leaving the angels in charge of finishing it off.

Later, after Adam and Eve, who wasn’t even the first Mrs. Adam(2), had been dropped off for playtime in the Garden of Eden, God stopped by and explained the rules: do what you want, eat what you want, and enjoy yourselves. All She asked of them was that they stay away from that one lone shady tree up on the hill – the only tree in all of Eden with big, shiny red apples hanging just low enough to be picked easily by hand. She figured those rules were easy enough to remember so She left the kids to their own devices and headed home to Her Penthouse in the sky.

Had God fast forwarded a few thousand years, and read a couple of Brothers Grimm stories, She would have realized just how seriously She had underestimated the appeal of a shiny red apple. Not to mention the fact that She put the tree on display, making it incredibly easy for curious hands to do things they shouldn't. And then there was Leo, the Serpent who lived in the higher branches of the tree - the Serpent God so irresponsibly forgot to mention. And Leo loved his apples, wanted to share them with whoever he could, so when Adam and Eve came close to the tree one afternoon while exploring the Garden, he convinced the pair of them that the shiny red apples were just apples and that the booming voice in the sky didn’t know what It was talking about.

The rest, as they say, is history.

Adam convinced Eve to pick an apple, but then, at the last minute, decided he’d rather have a peach instead. Unfortunately, it was too late; Eve had an apple from the Tree of Knowledge in her hand and, not wanting to waste a perfectly good piece of fruit just because the only man in the whole freaking universe couldn't make up his damn mind, took a bite and handed it over to Adam.

A few bites of apple later and they suddenly realized they were naked (knowledge being carnal at times) and decided they should probably cover up (what, with decency being an issue and all). With the kind of impeccable timing that only a Heavenly creature can have, God chose that precise moment to stop by for a visit and when She saw the fig leaves She lost Her heavenly cool and kicked them out of Perpetual Bliss and into the real world, where they landed on their bare asses with uncomfortable awareness.

Seriously, it’s all in the Bible - Ellie's version of it, at least.(3)

When good old Johan Gutenberg got his hands on it in the mid-14th century, he made a few edits that She never actually approved, edits that always struck Her as terrible bits of writing. Like blaming the whole thing on Eve - not cool, Johan. Not cool at all.(4)

Then there was the fact that he cut out Her favorite bit of the whole story, those last two lines right at the end of Genesis.

As they were leaving the Garden, Eve turned to Adam, smiled sweetly, and whispered, “Next time, pick your own Goddamn apples.”

(1) Well, at least it does in some old guy's Bible. God's own diary tells a much different story. See here.

(2) That would be Lilith. The problem with being God and creating a woman in Your own image is that said woman is most likely stubborn, independent, and headstrong. So was Lilith and after a short while of being told what to do by Adam, she told her 'husband' to kiss off and walked herself straight out of the garden and into the arms of sweet independence. God attempted to bring her back, more out of laziness than true want, but Lilith had seen what lay beyond the Garden and she liked it. So, resigned to actually having to do work, God created Eve from one of Adam's ribs and was a little less liberal with the stubborness. Realizing, however, just what a little twat Adam had become, God breathed a whole heap of independence into Her newest creation and sat back to watch the hilarity unfold below Her.

(3) She'd tucked it away in what would eventually become a pasture in France, with the idea it would be safe from prying eyes (safer downstairs than upstairs), only to have it dug up by a French farmer in the early 8th century, who of course ran off and translated it incorrectly because he spoke three words of Aramaic and just made up most of the rest of it. A few centuries later, it landed in Gutenberg's lap.

(4) When Gutenberg eventually died, and arrived at the Pearly Gates Corporation's front door, God made sure She was there to meet him so She could have a 'polite' conversation with him regarding the difference between artistic license and bullshit.

A Beginner's Guide to Hell, Hades & Purgatory, Ltd.

2010-11-04T09:53:00.003-04:00

Good afternoon and welcome to the lower levels of The Pearly Gates Corporation. My name is Hecate, Miss Tress for those of you new to damnation.* I'd like to take a moment to review the intake process with you before I begin the tour.

When we begin the tour, please mind your step and keep your hands - whatever may be left of them - in your pockets. If you are without pockets, then you've obviously misjudged the needs of your afterlife attire and should have paid more attention to your fashion sense while alive. If you're without hands, just wave a stump and we'll see what we can do for you.

Now, to your right is the hallway leading to Hades and his subsidy company, the Aelysian Fields Agricultural Volunteer Group, or AFAVG for short. Please note that the AFAVG is behind the Great Green Door, not the red door. Do not open the red door unless you fancy starting out the afterlife as a pile of dog poo in the morning, as Cerberus has absolutely no sense of humor and believes everything standing in front of its three heads is either a bouncy toy or a midnight snack.

To the left are the primary offices of Hell and Purgatory. These include the Minion and Demon Lounges, both Lucifer and Mephisto's offices, all training classrooms, and the lower level kitchens. Some of you may have been given forms to fill out regarding head size and overall posture. Please report to the Quartermaster to be outfitted with horns and tails - this is to your right, the first door on the left.

Those of you who will not be joining the demon ranks, please note the color coding on your index cards. This will tell you which door to knock on. For instance, if you're holding a blue card, please move to your right. You'll be joining the offices of Purgatory. These offices are easily recognizable by the number of faces bearing bored expressions and the fact that the doors are blue. If you're unsure of whether or not an office is associated with Purgatory, you're not trying hard enough.

Now, if you're holding a yellow or purple card and have the nagging feeling you forgot to repent your sins whilst you were still alive, you'll be joining the offices of Hell. These are the doors that are neither blue nor green nor red nor paisley. And before you ask, no one has a paisley card but yes, there are paisley doors.** Yellow and purple card holders should knock on the yellow and purple doors corresponding to the number indicated in the upper right hand corner. If you knock on a door that does not match the number on your card, you will be politely referred to the taxidermist at the end of the hallway and your head will be fitted for a coat rack. Or some other handy piece of home decor, depending on the mood of the taxidermist.

Now, I believe you've all got index cards and have some idea of where you're heading. If you're still unsure of why you're down here instead of upstairs, you should take a minute to consider your most recent actions and ask yourself if you could have done anything to prevent your current predicament. Not that asking yourself this question will help - you'll still be standing in the Underworld - but it might help you to better understand just how big a shit you were when you were alive.

Now, should any of you have any questions - any questions at all - please hesitate to contact me and remember it's Hell. It's hot, it's uncomfortable, and there's the greatest possibility you'll be bunking with a horned demon whose idea of a good time is ripping you limb from limb. And for anyone preparing to question anything I've just said, please read the fine print on those index cards.

There is, indeed, a special room in Hell for complainers, corporate executives with spending accounts, and people who talk loudly on their cellular phones while standing in line at the grocery store.

* When God assigned positions in the Underworld, She didn't realize just how seriously Hecate would take her job. Nor did she realize just how much of an acquired taste the goddess' humor was. Ellie supposes that's what ambivalence gets you.

** They're bathrooms. Paisley doors, paisley walls, and paisley fixtures. Nothing screws with your head more than attempting to pee while in a room completely decorated in a swirling multi-colored pattern.

Are You Experienced...And Other Terrible Pick-Up Lines

2010-09-16T09:51:00.008-04:00

Claire is a month away from her 29th birthday and she's home in Boston, visiting her parents for a few days while she waits for her things to arrive from Detroit. She's found a place to live in the tiny lakeside town of Tuttle, Maine but she can't do much without furniture and the last time she checked the truck carrying most of her material life was slowly crossing the great (not really) state of New York, with an estimated arrival time of three days from now. She's not exactly sure when the distance from New York to Maine became a three day drive, but she thinks the truck might actually be a horse-drawn carriage instead.

"I'm bored," Claire says while sitting on the couch next to her father. When Harry chooses to ignore his eldest child and instead buries his head even deeper into his newspaper, Claire throws something at him. And edge of the newspaper curls down of its own volition.

"Ah, Claire," Harry says, glaring at her over the top rims of his glasses, "I didn't see you there. You were being so quiet, so well behaved."

"I'm bored," she repeats with a small smile at her father's sarcasm.

"We live in one of the most interesting cities in the world and you're bored." He straightens the newspaper and continues reading. "I know for a fact you haven't explored this entire city. Take my Metro card and go adventuring."

"I've never been to the South End," Claire says, actually considering it. The newspaper edge curls down once more, only this time Harry's hand has helped it.

"Planning on joining the Irish mob, are you?" he asks.

Claire shrugs. "I've done stranger things," she says. Her father's smile is somewhat cryptic and not for the first time Claire thinks he knows and understands more than he's letting on.

Harry closes the newspaper and folds it up, sets it aside, and stands.

"Dad?" Claire asks, confused.

"I'm not letting you wander around the South End by yourself, Claire," he says. "You're a gorgeous red head and the freckles on your face might as well be a map of Ireland. They'll kidnap you for sure."

She laughs and gets up from the couch. They step into the mudroom, just off the front hallway to the house, and begin pulling on winter gear. It's early February and the city's just dug itself out from under a Nor'easter that left an Arctic gale in its wake. Any exposed skin is likely to either freeze and fall off or stick to something.

"There's a record shop down there I've been meaning check out," Harry says, pulling on his parka. "Can't remember where I heard about it*, but supposedly it's the premiere seller of punk and rock vinyl in the city."

"I'm not giving you grandpa's RCA," Claire says with a smile.

Harry opens the door and they cringe at the blast of cold air. "Well, then," he says as they step outside. "I'll just have to survive the apocalypse and steal it when you're not looking."

* * *

It's late when they finally make it down Massachusetts Avenue. Harry insisted on driving, even though he knew there would be rush hour traffic, and so instead of taking fifteen minutes by T, it's taken them an hour by car. The record store doesn't look like much from the outside - in fact, it looks like an old garage from the outside, complete with two large bay doors and a faded sign painted onto the brick above them proclaiming the space to be Paddy's Auto Repair.

A bell above the door rings as they walk inside and the two men at the center register of the store look up at them, one with a vacant expression and the other with something in between disgust and hopefulness. Harry and Claire are the only people in the shop.

"Are you getting ready to close up?" Claire asks, taking her hat off. She can practically feel her hair getting bigger in the warm store.

The younger man, wearing a Rogue Brewery t-shirt and dark jeans, steps down from the register and makes his way across the store to where they're standing. His expression no longer resembles a sour lemon; in fact, he appears to be smiling.

"It's just a slow night." He holds out his hand. "I'm Jack Hardcourt, the owner."

Claire pulls her mitten off and takes his hand. It's warm and slightly calloused. "Claire Rogers." She points over her shoulder to where Harry is already flipping through albums. "That's my dad, Harry. He's a Pink Floyd fan," she says.

"45s only, though," Harry says, looking up from the records to smile at Claire. He looks at Jack, takes stock of the unshaven jaw, dark jeans and obnoxious t-shirt. As a father, he's unimpressed; as a beer drinker, he's appreciative. "Nice to meet you, Jack," he says and immediately goes back to sorting through the records.

"So, Claire, anything I can help you find?" He smiles fully at her and she takes a minute to notice the difference in his face. The smile makes him look younger, smarter somehow, and definitely more attractive.

Definitely.

"Hendrix," she says. "'Are You Experienced?'"

"Depends on what we're talking about," Jack says and Claire feels the blush all the way down to her toes.

"The album, on a 45," she says and he smiles.

"Ah, well, that I can absolutely help you with." He leads her away from her oblivious father** and they weave their way through the sales racks of records to a black bookshelf near the back of the store. "If it came out before 1978 it's back here," he says.

Claire stares at the wall of music and feels overwhelmed. "It's incredible," she says. She turns and smiles at him. "You have an amazing job," she says.

He shrugs. "I'm sure yours is pretty amazing."

"I'm a librarian...sometimes a prophet."

He laughs at this. "A prophet librarian?" he asks. She grins, shrugs. "I've met stranger people in the universe." He points over his shoulder towards the older guy at the cash register. "Like him." The clerk is staring off into space and twirling the fringe on his suede vest. "He used to be a business man, until he was introduced to the late sixties and forgot all about his MBA."

Claire knows that Jack doesn't believe her - half the people she talks to don't believe her, including some of the ones who really should - and she's okay with that. She's there to buy a record, not convert an atheist - which Claire knows he is because he is so obviously an atheist it makes her want to laugh.***

He pulls a record down from the top shelf and hands it to her. It's Jimi Hendrix and he's definitely experienced. She smiles and hugs it to her chest.

"What else?" he asks.

"Van Morrison. And maybe some Cream. Or Jethro Tull."

Jack looks at her, arm outstretched and poised to grasp a battered looking Van Morrison album. He looks a little dumbfounded.

"What?" she asks, suddenly self-conscious.

"A librarian with a love of classic rock," he says and she nods. "Will you marry me?" he asks and he almost sounds serious.

She tilts her head to the side and considers him. He definitely looks serious. She files it away for further analysis later on when she's home.

"Maybe later," she says. "For now, though, let's just listen to some music that won't make my ears bleed."

* * *

She's in the car with her father headed back to the house in the Back Bay. There are six albums in total in a very large paper bag in the back seat of Harry's old Volvo, a paper bag that bears the Hardcourt Records label and a very large phone number, handwritten in permanent marker just underneath it. Claire smiles, first at the bag then at her father.

"You seem awfully pleased with yourself," Harry says.

"Most of those are one-of-a-kind, dad," she says, "and Jack practically gave them to us."

"Jack is it?" he asks, struggling with an impish grin.

Claire shrugs. "He seemed nice," she says.

"You should check back in a couple weeks when you come down for your birthday," Harry says, turning onto Arlington. "See if he's gotten in any new vintage collections."

She'd never tell him, because he's her father and his ego would swell far too much, but there are times when Claire thinks Harry Rogers is the most wonderful human being in the world.

"We'll see," she says. Almost as an afterthought, she kisses her mittened hand and pats his cheek with it. "Thanks, dad."

He winks at her as he pulls into their driveway. "Anytime, kiddo. Anytime."

* * *

"That chick was groovy, Jack man," George says as they close up shop.

Jack rolls his eyes. "Indeed she was, George." He takes a moment to pray that the old man leaves it alone, but he's never been that lucky...which is why he's an atheist.

"You should take her out," George says. "I think she'd dig the Clary House."

"The Clary House is a pit where good food goes to die. It's fit only for the likes of you and me, my friend," Jack says as he pulls on his coat. His apartment is just above the store, but he has to go outside and up a fire escape to get to it and it's just cold enough and he's just that much of a wuss that he needs a jacket. He opens the front door and George steps out into the dark Boston night. "Do you need a cab?" Jack asks. He drives him crazy, but Jack often worries about the old stoner. Good help is hard enough to find; mediocre help is impossible.

"Naw, man. I rode my bike in." He points over his shoulder and Jack looks, expecting a Harley or a scooter. Instead, he sees a Schwinn three-speed that's an obnoxious orange. "The streets are pretty clear. Just gotta watch out for those icy spots is all." Jack nods, forces himself not to ask why George is riding a bike in the middle of winter. "I've got good vibes about that girl, Jack," George says in a moment of sure clarity - even his eyes look clear. "If she calls you, go for it."

At that moment, a man in a long duffel coat rides up on a battered road bike. He waves at George and George waves back. Jack can't be certain, because it's dark and the street lamps near the shop never throw off enough light, but the man's helmet looks almost like a halo above his golden head.

"What's up, my man?" George says.

"Gettin' my bike on, that's what," the man says with a lopsided grin. "You ready to roll?"

George pulls a helmet out of his backpack and straps it on, which alleviates some of Jack's worry. He grins at Jack. "That's my bike buddy," he says, unlocking the Schwinn. "Michael," he calls over his shoulder, "this is the Boss Man, Jack."

Michael stares at him for an odd second - during which Jack feels as though he's a book being opened and perused - before grinning and nodding. "I've heard good things, Boss Man Jack."****

Jack watches as the two men ride off down the street and he thinks that he must be more tired than he realized because for just a second, he thinks he sees wings hanging out the bottom of Michael's coat.

* Harry read about it on a $20 bill one day. Written next to Jefferson's bulbous head was the following: HARDCOURT RECORDS, FOR HARD ROCK PEOPLE. Little did Harry know that it was in Michael's handwriting. Archangels...they meddle.

** Fathers are never as oblivious as their daughters think they are. Case in point, Harry has already started a mental catalog of all the things wrong with Jack Hardcourt. He does, however, give the man a few credits because of his excellent taste in music and beer.

*** He's either an atheist or a domestic terrorist "against the establishment". She prefers to think he's far too handsome to be a terrorist, but she's been known to be wrong before. She did date a minion for awhile in college, afterall...

**** He has heard good things from George, but also from Porrima, one of the Roman seers. She keeps telling him about a man named Jack who will help Claire at a trying and difficult time. She failed to mention that he was also a record store owner, which makes Michael a whole lot more willing to accept the fact the guy's an atheist because he's an atheist with good taste in music.

The Big Bang Theory...For Beginners

2010-09-01T17:00:00.005-04:00

God wakes slowly, the sunlight filtering through Her bedroom window warm on Her face. She shifts under the weight of the blankets and is immediately reminded of the evening before, the multiple shots of something called alcohol and the bright red tie Lucifer had decided to wear tied around Her head while She demonstrated the yet-to-be-named Running Man dance move.*

She feels like Her limbs are not necessarily attached to Her corporeal body. Deciding to test Her theory that Her arms got up and walked away in the middle of the night, She attempts to move Her left arm. It drags across Her chest like a weighted sand bag.

Her naked chest.

Her naked chest which appears to be just to the right of Her other naked chest.

Since when do I have two naked chests?

Her green eyes fly open and She bolts upright in Her bed, limbs suddenly awake and very much attached. Beside Her, a body stirs as She smacks it with a newly functioning hand and She turns Her head to look at Her bed mate.

"Oh holy Me," She says and immediately begins to push at the body next to Her.

Lucifer grumbles as God finally pushes him off the mattress. There's a loud smack and snort as he lands face first on the marble floor of Her bedroom.

"Ow," he says, pulling himself into a kneeling position at the edge of Her bed. He rubs his forehead, a purple mark appearing on his pale skin where it connected with the floor. "What happened?"

"Out!" God yells, pointing at the door to Her room. She's on the verge of hysterics and getting closer every second.

He starts as though slapped and quickly stands, wrapping the discarded comforter around his waist. "Why are You yelling at me?" he asks. "And did You just throw me out of bed?"

"No, I pushed you out of bed and I did so because it's My bed and because you aren't supposed to be in it!" She grips the sheet wrapped around Her tighter. "I'm your boss, Lucifer. You're not supposed to sleep with your boss."

"Says who?" he asks, awfully indignant for an angel who just did a naked face plant on a marble floor.

"You," She says. He looks at Her, confused. "It's in the Employee Manual you helped My Father write, or don't you remember that little side project you took on a few years ago?"

"Oh," he says. His eyes seem to catch sight of something in the window behind Her and they wander from Her face to a point just over Her left shoulder. "Oops..." he says quietly.

"That's all you can say? Oops?" She asks.

He sighs, points at the window behind Her. She turns and, upon seeing the giant blue and green ball sitting outside Her bedroom window, squeaks in a very non-professional, non-Godly way.**

"Oops," he says again.

"What the frick is that?!" She screeches, no longer just on the verge but instead mid-way into a full on hysterical fit. Lucifer says nothing and She whirls on him, golden afro flying around Her head like angry springs. "Lucy, what the hell is that?!" She stabs the glass behind Her, wincing slightly when a crack sounds through the room.

He crosses his arms over his pale chest and glares at Her. "It's a planet and don't call me Lucy."

"A planet?" She asks, turning to look out the window again at the little green and blue orb. There are white clouds swirling around and it looks inviting, far nicer than the gaseous balls Her Father left behind. Something in Her chest (Her actual chest, not the chest She mistook for Her own) tugs and She puts Her hand up on the glass, smiles in spite of everything.

"Technically, our planet," Lucifer says.

The smile disappears and She bangs Her forehead against the window glass. "Shit."

* * *

Lucky for them both, the Archangel Michael came of age a few hours earlier. Yahweh had designed His archangels to be level-headed problem solvers. Raphael and Gabriel were still in training, but Michael had managed to con the seraphim teaching him into letting them out of class a little early. Hence, why it was lucky - otherwise, Lucifer and God would have spent another hundred years fighting over who had the right to the little blue and green planet God had immediately named Earth.

"The planet is Hers," Michael says around a mouthful of ambrosia. "This is fantastic," he says to God. "Like Heaven on a spoon." God smiles, flattered, and Lucifer (now dressed in a three piece suit, pink tie, and pointed loafers) almost immediately turns purple with rage.

"Bullshit! That planet is half mine! I helped create it!"

Michael shrugs, keeping an eye on the pointed purple guy. He doesn't trust anything that turns purple when it's angry.*** "That may be the case, Pointy, but She's not only the Earth's Mother, She's also the boss up here, which means that if She wants the planet, She gets the planet."

"I can't believe You're doing this," Lucifer says to God. "First You get the company and now You get the planet." He crosses his arms over his chest. "Is there anything You don't have control over?"

"You still have the ability to walk and speak, so yes, it looks like there are a few things I can't control." She frowns at him, mimics his stance. "It's not like I asked for the damn thing," She says. "How was I supposed to know that what happened between us was going to lead to this?"

"How did you think Mercury and Venus were created?!" Lucifer asks, incredulous. "Or did Your Father never tell You about the Planets and Planes?"****

"He was a little busy being a single father and running Heaven!" God hollers, Her patience running out. "Cut the poor guy some slack!"

Michael looks between Lucifer and God and props his chin in his hand on the table in front of him. "Are you two always this annoying?" he asks.

"Yes!" they shout in unison.

"Right, then." He stands, shakes our his newly matured wings, and rolls his neck. The bones crack audibly in the quiet of God's office. "I'll be back in a little bit."

"Where are you going?" Lucifer asks. He looks at God and She shruggs, just as confused as he is.

"To check it out," he says, pointing at the planet. "I want to see why this place is such a big deal." He opens the door to God's balcony, stretches his wings out as far as they'll go, and leaps off the edge. They hear him shouting in glee the entire way down.

"That's impressive," God says, Her green eyes following Michael's descent to the world below.

"Please," Lucifer says, "anyone can do that."

"Maybe you should go with him, then," She says, still watching the angel fly towards Earth.

Lucifer straightens his tie. "I just had my suit pressed." God smiles but says nothing. Lucifer frowns at Her. "Wrinkles are very hard to get out of wool."

"Of course they are," She says and hops over the edge of the balcony to follow Her new archangel down.

* * *

When God catches up to him, Michael is lounging under a shady tree, eating a red ball. He throws one to Her as She approaches.

"I'm calling them apples," he says. "Don't know why, but it seems to fit."

She takes a bite, smiles. "It's good."

He motions to the land around them. "There are millions of trees on this planet. Some big, some little, all green and wonderful." He grins widely at Her. "I'm kind of diggin' this place. There's room to stretch my wings down here."

She settles on the ground next to him, takes a bite of Her apple. "What am I going to do with it?" She asks.

"Fill it with animals and mortals and see what happens." She looks at him, surprised. "What?" he asks. "You can't just leave a place like this empty. It's far too fertile."

"Mercury and Venus are empty," She says.

"Because Your Father accidentally made them uninhabitable," he says.

"You weren't even alive when those things happened. How would you know?"

He smiles. "Archangels know everything, Boss." He bumps Her shoulder with his own. "We're born with the knowledge of the universe packed tightly into our thick skulls." He taps the side of his head. "Mind like a steel trap, whatever that is."

"Lucky Me," She says, laughing.

He points up. "That pointy guy is a pain in the ass," he says.

She sighs. "Lucifer has his moments." She frowns at the sky above them. "He used to work for My Father. I think he thought he was getting the keys to the kingdom when Yahweh retired." She shrugs. "Dear old Dad had other ideas."

"Probably a bad idea, then, for the two of you to get involved."

"We're not involved," She says a little too quickly. His left eyebrow arches up. "It was a one time thing. A one time, absolutely terrible thing." She looks at him, frowns. "Never get involved with co-workers, Mike."

"Duly noted, Boss."

She stands, holds Her hand out to him. "Call me Ellie," She says and he takes Her hand. She helps him to his feet. "My Father always did and I like it better than Boss or God."

"Sounds good, Ellie."

"I'm going to need help getting this place ready. Think you can help Me?"

He shakes his wings out. "Your wish is my command."

She's not completely certain, but She thinks Her archangel winks at Her as he takes off from the ground. She also thinks he's all kinds of trouble.

* * *

Lucifer is waiting for Her in Her office when She gets back upstairs. He looks even more disgruntled than he did earlier. In fact, She thinks there might be smoke coming out of his ears.

"Well?" he asks.

"I'm going to fill it up with animals and mortals," She says, pulling bits of cloud out of Her afro. There was a weather system moving as She headed up and She had to climb through a pack of cumulonimbus. "I'd like all the angels to help, at the direction of Michael."

"He just came of age a few hours ago!"

She sighs. "And he seems very responsible and capable of the task."

He plants his hands on Her desk and leans forward. "I've worked here since the beginning," he says quietly. "Your Father trusted me most of all."

She sits down and looks up at him, Her green eyes losing their earlier mirth. "My Father no longer runs this joint, Lucy, so I suggest you suck it up and move on."

He straightens. "You'll regret this, Ellie."

"Probably not, Lucy." She smiles sweetly and sits in Her chair at Her desk in Her office. "Now be a good boy and run along."

He turns on his heel and stalks out. She watches him leave and wonders if She will, someday down the line, regret it. Then She begins to think of all the different things She can do with Her new planet and Lucifer's warning is forgotten.*****

* * *

Lucifer, however, is just getting started. He's had a thought on his way back to his office, a thought that requires a detour to the Heavenly Library so he can consult the Heavenly Dictionary. He flips to the "E" section and scans the pages. When he finds what he's looking for, he taps his hand on the page.

"Evident," he says to the empty room. "That sounds badass." He scans a little further and happens upon the word "evil". When he reads the definition, he rolls his eyes. "Or evil. I could go with evil." He reads the definition again, comes to a conclusion. "In fact, I think I'll reinvent the definition of evil."

He nods to himself, pleased, and takes a couple steps away from the book. Yet another thought strikes him and he stops. He reaches back and steals the Dictionary to take with him. He flips to the "R" section as he walks out of the sparsley populated room.

"Reinvent means what, again?"

* You know you saw that one coming.

** Eeek! In the words of Yahweh: This shit just got crazy, yo.

*** Michael doesn't trust anything purple, period. He doesn't know why but he thinks it might have something to do with Gabriel. Most everything does.

**** Birds and bees, for all you mortals out there. Immortals have planets and planes, for existential and philosophical reasons only Socrates will eventually understand. And you all know what happens to him.

***** Thank goodness the Home & Garden channel hadn't yet been invented. The Garden of Eden might have turned out far differently if God had been given access to a Home Depot.

In Which God (Maybe) Learns Her Lesson (Sort Of)

2010-08-06T13:00:00.002-04:00

This is dedicated to all the new moms, the women who just pushed watermelons out of pinholes, the unrecognized saints of the universe. What the hell was God thinking, anyway?

She likes to stand outside nurseries at random hospitals throughout the world and admire Her handiwork. She usually does it on bad days, when the paperwork on Her desk has piled up to the ceiling (literally) and Metatron won't shut up about signatures and PG-98 forms and how hard he works to make Her look good.* Today was one of those days so when Meta's back was turned, She slipped out the side door to Her office, took the express bus down to Earth, and popped into the Maternity ward of a little hospital in Glasgow, Scotland.

There are ten little babies wrapped in alternating pink and blue blankets inside clear plastic cribs and each of them is asleep, their faces slack with the dreams of the newly born. They look peaceful, wonderful, and God leans Her forehead against the glass and sighs.

"Just wait until they wake up," Michael says from right beside Her and She's so susprised She bangs Her head against the glass.

"Ow," She says, rubbing the pink mark on Her caramel skin. "I've told you a million times, don't sneak up on Me."

"You're supposed to be omnipotent," the Archangel says with a knowing smirk and She frowns at him.

"We both know that statement is ninety-seven percent false." Not for the first time, She wonders who started that ridiculous rumor about Her omnipotence. She wouldn't be surprised if Gabriel had something to do with it or, worse yet, Lucifer. "What are you doing here?"

"Meta sent me to look for You."

"Since when do you do My Voice's dirty work?"

Michael shrugs. "Since You started shirking Your duties as the so-called Known Creator of the Universe."

"Hey, Zeus and I agreed to share that title, thank you very much. As such, I can disappear from My office whenever the Hell I want to." She turns back to look at the nursery. "I couldn't take another day of paperwork and that whiny voice Meta uses when he thinks I'm not paying enough attention to him."

"The one that sounds like a three year old on helium?" Michael asks and She nods.

"I feel like slapping him when he starts with that voice," She says. She turns, then, and looks at Michael. She's in a place where no one - mortal or immortal - should have known to look for her and yet, here he is. "How exactly did you find Me?" She asks.

Michael grins. "You're predictable," he says, "and a lot less complex than you think you are."

She smooshes Her lips together in an exaggerated frown. "I hate you." He laughs.

She doesn't, actually. She couldn't. Of all the angels in Heaven, Inc. Michael is by far Her favorite. He's...normal. He has flaws and vices and an unhealthy obsession with the mortals living on Her accidental planet and if She gave him just an ounce more of freedom, he'd run amok and break something, but for some reason She likes him. It helps that he isn't perfect, like his Archangel counterparts Gabriel and Raphael. Thankfully, those two broke the mold. Literally.**

"So why the babies?"

"I like to admire My handiwork."

He steps up to the glass and She looks at him from corner of Her green eye. He's wearing a dusty green overcoat over what She suspects are jeans and a t-shirt and his wings. He looks vaguely like a homeless person, especially with the beard he's started sporting recently.

"Have You seen the kind of work that goes into getting one of these little bundles of joy?" he asks.

She rolls Her eyes. "Duh. I'm God. Of course I know what goes into making a baby." Without verbally agreeing to do so, they both decline to mention Her own adventures in Motherhood, i.e., the Earth.***

He chuckles and the sound echoes in the quiet of the hospital corridor. "Not making a baby; delivering a baby."

She laughs and it's awkward. "Of course I know about delivering a baby. I'm an expert on deliveries."

"Oh really?" he asks and She nods. He checks his watch. "Well then. The other reason I came down here is You scheduled me for an onsite at 6:08 pm. The McConnells and Baby Abigail." He holds his hand out. "If You're such an expert, You should really see this. I have it on good authority that Baby Abigail has big things in her future."

She narrows Her eyes. "The Moirae or the Parcae?" She asks.****

He grins. "Both. I like to hedge my bets when it comes to newborns." He wiggles his fingers at Her. "Come on," he says. "We're already three minutes late."

* * *

Michael rubs circles on Her back while She tries to get Her breathing under control. She hyperventilated a few minutes earlier and passed out on the delivery room floor. Thankfully, no one can see them, so it wasn't too big of a deal, but Michael will never let Her live it down. They're sitting on a bench outside Baby Abigail's room and Michael has magically produced a can of Orange Slice and a straw and God is slowly, but surely, feeling better.

"That was horrible," She says and She can tell without looking that Michael is silently laughing at Her because his circular hand motions take on a decidedly free form. "Stop laughing at Me. It isn't that funny."

He leans forward so She can see him without having to sit up. "You're absolutely right. It isn't funny. It's fucking hilarious."

She scowls at the floor and hopes he can see it. She holds Her hand out for the can of soda and he gives it to Her. There are few things in the universe that make Her feel better than a can of Orange Slice. It's the drink of the Gods - literally. There are cases of it in the cafeteria at the Pearly Gates.

"Who would volunteer to go through that?" She asks, finally sitting up. Michael moves his hand away from Her back and She has to stop herself from whining at the loss of contact. I shall not have unprofessional feelings towards my employees, She chants in Her head. Look where it got Me the first time.

"Unfortunately, it's the only way to get one of those tiny bundles You thought were so adorable twenty minutes ago."

She looks at him. "Tell Me the truth, Mike - did I do that to women?"

He begins to laugh again and She punches his arm, hard. "Ow. Yes, Ellie. You did that to women."

She leans her head back against the wall behind them and frowns. "I am a terrible diety. I don't even remember doing that! I wonder if I can get it reversed..."

Michael shakes his head. "No dice. That was a PGX-007 order. Not even Yahweh himself could get one of those reversed." He steals the can of soda from Her hand and takes a long sip. "I'll bet it was one of those forms Meta dropped in front of You and demanded You sign."

"I never read those forms," She says.

"No kidding." He points over his shoulder to the delivery room. "Probably why Mrs. McConnell is currently pushing something the size of a watermelon out of something the size of a pinhole."

God takes a moment to think about the logistics of it, remembers She, too, is a woman, and moans in sympathy for the heroic Mrs. McConnell. "I'll say it again - I am a terrible, terrible, terrible diety!" She rolls Her head to the side and stares at him. "Planets are so much easier. I went to sleep, woke up, and BAM. Planet."

"That happened to me once," Michael says.

"You woke up and had a planet outside your bedroom window?"

He winks at Her. "Where do you think Saturn came from?"

* * *

Metatron is waiting in Her office with a stack of intake forms, a green pen, and an attitude problem. He doesn't even wait for Her to sit down before he starts talking.

"Where have You been?" he asks and She hopes it's rhetorical. "I've been collecting intake forms from that train crash in Russia since ten this morning. Zeus and Hera have called three times, as have Jupiter and Juno - You know how those four have to do everything equally. Joan gave up around lunchtime and went in search of the French Army to convert. I've been here on my own the whole day and You've been doing who knows what down on Earth with Michael!"

God stares at him for a moment and comes to a decision. She reaches out, knocks his hands, and sends the stack of intake forms flying through the air. The office is covered in a rainfall of paper and in the middle of it all, Meta stands with his mouth open, apparently trying to scream but not sure how it'll be received.

"Meta, darling," God says in Her sweetest tone of voice. Meta nods, still silent. "I've had a tiring day. Go away before I strangle you with your cravat and sell you to the British Museum as a dress-up doll." She cocks Her head to the side and smiles, reaches out and pats the top of his head. "Okay, pumpkin?"

Meta nods and silently leaves Her office. She cleans the mess up with a flick of Her finger and sits down at Her desk, pulls the bottom left drawer all the way out and roots around in it for a minute or two. Her hand finally finds what it's looking for and She pulls out a nearly full bottle of Glenlivit.

Orange Slice may make Her feel better, but Glenlivit makes Her feel spectacular. And as Her holy hoo-ha cringes at the thought of what She witnessed today, She decides that there is absolutely nothing wrong with spectacular.

She pours Herself a glass and turns to Her giant window. "Cheers, moms," She says and clinks the glass against the window. "May they be worth all that trouble."

* PG-98 Forms are the worst. It's sixty pages of bureaucratic hell with lots of check boxes, text fields, and places to initial and sign. And it's all so the newly damned get their due process. God personally thinks that being a dick in one's life is all the due process for an eternity in Hell one needs, but She was overruled by the Council. Hence the PG-98.

** Gabriel and Raphael popped out, perfect and wonderful, and before Yahweh had a chance to change the settings, the mold literally broke into six solid pieces and He had to create Michael from scratch. If nothing else, it explains why Mike is the only of the three Archangels who can grow a beard and who doesn't know all the words to "Bat out of Hell".

*** Babies and planets have a lot in common. One unprotected drunken indiscretion later and BAM. You've got a baby or a planet. And one hell of a hangover.

**** He gets along better with the Parcae, the Roman Fates, but the Moirae, the Greek Fates, serve better cakes with their tea so he usually stops by both offices whenever possible.

Dear France, Stop Digging Sh*t Up. Love, Claire (Part 4)

2010-07-27T08:27:00.013-04:00

The Franciscan is barely five feet tall and he's missing most of his hair, save for a pair of gray tufts on the sides. His nose is oversized for his small face and Claire can't stop staring at it. She thinks this is maybe why God sent Michael with her, to keep her from making an ass of herself by staring at the monk's bulbous schnoz. The little man is talking, too, and Claire hasn't been able to pay attention to a word of it.

"Claire?" Sister Josephine asks and Claire shakes her head slightly to clear the haze. She turns away from the monk and looks at the Mother Superior. "Zee Friar wants to see zee book. Could you get it for 'im?"

The older nun winks and Claire considers breaking down in hysterical laughter. It's been that kind of day - an evil address book, an art forger, and the Devil. Sister Josephine is lucky Claire is still functioning.

"Of course, Mother Superior." Claire walks into the vault and picks up the forged Legemeton. Sister Magdalene, true to Michael's assumption, had copied the book. It's a perfect forgery, practically indistinguishable from the the book that Michael took with him, save for one tiny difference: you can actually read from this one without fear of a demon popping up and eating you. Claire's already skimmed over a few pages. It left her wondering if Crowley, the Serpent from the Garden of Eden, still lives in Baltimore, Maryland.*

She bundles the book up in an old piece of oil cloth and takes it out to the waiting Franciscans. The little Friar is tapping his sandaled foot impatiently, his giant nostrils flaring in time to his foot. Claire wonders if he got marbles stuck in those nostrils as a child. She begins to giggle at the thought of it, loses track of her feet, and trips.

The book, of course, flies out of her hands and lands on the floor at the Friar's feet.

"Claire," Sister Josephine says with a sigh. "What am I going to do wiz you?"

The Friar is berrating her in French, which is lucky for him as Claire can't understand more than a few words of the language.** She does, however, recognize "Vous fille gauche" as "you ridiculous girl" and she rolls her eyes at the little man.

"Oh can it, Friar Tuck."

* * *

After a long week at the Pearly Gates, God is indulging in a bit of pampering. She's listening to Fleetwood Mac while brushing a second coat of Holy Roller Pink on Her toes. She's just about done Her left foot when the door to Her office bangs open and Michael walks in, followed closely by Lucifer.

She stares at them, Her hand poised with the nail polish brush over Her foot. She stares at the two intruders, both of whom are staring back at Her in surprise.

"Michael," She says. "Lucy." She finishes Her foot, puts the brush back in the bottle and closes it up. "To what do I owe the displeasure of your company?"

"Is that pink nail polish?" Lucifer asks.

Michael arches an eyebrow at Her. "And Fleetwood Mac?"

She frowns, points at the stereo system across the wall. The opening chords of Go Your Own Way fade out and Michael coughs, poorly covering a laugh.

"What the hell do you two want?" God asks, annoyed.

Michael opens up his robe, pulls out the Legemeton. "I brought this up for You," he says. Lucifer tries to snatch the book out of his hands, but Michael is faster and he moves it out of the Devil's reach. "It's the Legemeton."

"Legemeton?" She asks.

"The grimoire You asked Claire to pick up from St. Luac's?" Michael asks. God continues to look at him blankly and he sighs. "Lucy's address book?"

Recognition flashes across her face. "Right! The address book. Let Me have it. I'll put it in the big vault." Lucifer whines and they ignore him. Michael doesn't move, though. "Mike?" She asks.

His mouth curves up in the tinniest of smiles. "I have a better idea," he says and opens the book, begins ripping the pages out of it. God stares at him with big eyes and Lucifer squeaks each time a page is ripped out. When Michael's finished tearing out pages, all that's left is the outer covering. He hands it over to Lucifer and tucks the torn pages into his robe.

"My gorgeous book..." Lucifer moans.

"I'll make you a deal, Lucy," he says. "For every good deed you do, you get a page of your address book back."

"What?!" God shrieks, standing so quickly Her chair falls over. She stares at Michael like he's lost his mind.***

Lucifer does the math in his head. "But that's two hundred good deeds!" he cries. "Do you know how long that's going to take?"

"At least a century in Earth time. I suggest you get started." Michael grins. "Don't worry. The warm and fuzzy feeling eventually grows on you."

"Michael, those pages are full of evil," God says. "You can't just give them back to him."

"Good and evil, Ellie. You're the one who's always saying there has to be balance." He pulls a page out of his robe, hands it to the Devil. "For helping Claire out earlier."

Lucifer looks at the page, calms a little. "Uriel," he says. "She was fun."****

"And she had those huge..." Michael begins, holding out his arms. He stops, though, when God clears Her throat. "Wings. Huge wings."

"Get out of My office, Lucy." God says, Her eyes never leaving Michael. Lucifer doesn't hesitate to run. Two angry women in one day is enough for the Devil. He's barely cleared the doors when She points Her finger at them and they slam closed.

"Did You know what the book was when You sent us to St. Luac?" Michael asks.

God hesitates. "I'm not sure how to answer that without you throwing a fit."

"You wasted a Prophet's time in search of an address book for Your own nemesis." She opens Her mouth to object, but the Archangel raises a hand to silence Her. "Claire has enough on her plate with Armageddon coming up without You sending her on a fool's errand to France. I could have gone by myself." He crosses his arms over his broad chest, frowns at Her. "I know You don't get along with that little prick, but the bad news is You're stuck with him. Learn to deal. And don't ever again use Claire to do Your dirty work where Lucifer is concerned."

God's eyes narrow. She hasn't ever appreciated being told what to do. It's one of the main reasons She now enjoys being the boss. "Don't overstep your boundaries, angel," She says quietly.

Michael uncrosses his arms, walks over to God's desk, and leans in close. "She's my charge. When You put her in harm's way, You overstep YOUR boundaries." Their eyes lock and if either of them feel the electric current that passes through the office, they decline to mention it. Both blink and the tension is gone.

Michael straightens, shakes out his wings, and takes a few steps towards the door.

"Where are you going?" God asks, suddenly insecure. She doesn't often fight with Michael and something about him just leaving doesn't sit well with Her.

He smiles over his shoulder as he pulls open the office doors. "To check on Claire. I left her with a handful of nuns and some Franciscans. She's either been converted or she's hit someone." He winks. "Don't miss me too much."

"You wish!" She calls after him. "So mature..." She mutters to Herself, thinking he's out of earshot.

He pops his head back in the office and smiles so brilliantly at Her, Her eyes hurt. "Don't You know it, darlin'," he says and disappears completely.

It takes all of Her holy willpower, but She doesn't stomp Her foot like a petulant child.

She throws something instead.

* * *

"You called him Friar Tuck?" Michael asks around laughter and Claire nods, all smiles.

He caught up with her at the airport in Paris and agreed to keep her company on the flight back to Detroit. He had actually offered to fly her back himself, but she declined on the pretense that an airplane would be safer. A short argument ensued at that point regarding angel wings versus plane wings and a little old woman sitting next to them solved it by politely asking them to shut the hell up because she couldn't hear her iPod over their "squawking".

"He looked just like Porky Pig, too, so all I could hear in my head the whole time was yoyks and away." She pulls her seatbelt across her lap, motions for Michael to do the same. "I kept waiting for Daffy Duck to show up with his buck and a quarter quarterstaff."

Michael's laughter is so loud he's drawing attention from the other passengers and, to his great pleasure, an attractive flight attendant with big "wings". The angel actually has tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Did you get the book back to God like you were supposed to?" she asks once he's calmed down enough to talk.

He nods, wipes his eyes. "Kind of."

"Kind of?" Claire asks. "What does 'kind of' mean?"

"I ripped the pages out of it. Every time Lucifer performs a good deed, he gets a page of his address book back."

Claire's shocked smile is reward enough for Michael. "I'm going to bet She wasn't happy with that."

"Not at all." He pulls a handful of tiny liquor bottles out of his overcoat pocket.

"How did you make it out of Her office with all your feathers intact?" she asks.

"Angelic charm," he says, picking out a tiny bottle of Jameson.

"You left before She could smite you, didn't you?"

"Yup." He holds the bottle up. "Ever wonder how they make these so tiny?" he asks.

"The bottles are regular size, Mike. Your hands are just so big they make them look tiny." She smiles, closes her eyes as the plane begins to take off.

It's quiet and Claire cracks open her right eye. Michael is holding his hand up to his face, examing it. When he hears her start to laugh, he drops his hand into his lap and frowns.

"My hands are not that big," he says and she closes her eye, her smile widening. "They're not."

"You're absolutely right," she says. "They're not big."

"Thank you," he says.

"They're ginormous."

"I kind of hate you."

* He does and gee, doesn't that explain a lot...

** If she could understand more, the Friar might fear for his little bald head. As it is, Josephine is deliberately translating only the nice words so Claire doesn't throw something at the Hobbit-like man.

*** Michael has a bad habit of making up his own rules as he goes along. He's never reckless, per se, but he's never one hundred percent safe and sound either. Truth be told, however, that character flaw is the reason God loves him. Like a brother. Loves him like a brother. Absolutely.

**** Later that day, Lucifer will look at the fallen angel before him and say "Uriel, my darling dear, my how your wings have grown..." He'll make a mental note to thank Michael for giving him back that particular page first.

Dear France, Stop Digging Sh*t Up. Love, Claire (Part 3)

2010-07-20T16:30:00.000-04:00

Author's Note: So I lied...it's actually going to be a four part trilogy. :)

Just after they accidentally created the Earth and God decided Motherhood suited her just fine and Lucifer's plans for taking over Heaven, Inc. went horribly awry, the Devil hatched a plan. He decided to fall to Earth and cause a little chaos, wreak a little havoc. See, angels on terra firma can do things that angels upstairs can't; they can engage in acts that are considered illegal and forbidden in Heaven.* His plan hinged on the assumption that God would notice his absence, realize She missed him and couldn't do Her job without him, beg him to come home to Heaven, and be willing to give him anything he asked for just to see him return.

Because he was just that important.**

So Lucifer fell to Earth, caused some chaos, and engaged in a few illegal and immoral acts while he waited to hear from God. He waited...and he waited...and he waited. After a month, he ran out of bad things to do and out of boredom, gave in and crawled back to Heaven. It looked different, larger, and there were more inhabitants than he remembered. Unwashed and scraggly, with a full month's worth of beard covering his face, he stopped the first angel who crossed his path and asked what had happened.

"There was a merger," the angel said. "All the religions in the universe have been moving into the complex." The angel pointed to a large, gilded sign hanging over the lobby's grand staircase. "Welcome to the Pearly Gates Corporation," the angel said. Then, sniffing the air, it frowned. "You should probably take a shower."

Lucifer rushed up to Her office and demanded to know why he hadn't been informed of such drastic changes, why he hadn't been consulted. He went so far as to say Her Father never would have done something so irresponsible. She brushed him off.

"You were on vacation," She said. "I didn't want to bother you."

"I fell to Earth, Ellie! I caused chaos and strife and other nasty things!" He crossed his arms over his chest and looked down his filthy nose at Her. "I ate meat on Fridays and I liked it."

She looked up at him and smiled. "That sounds lovely, Lucy. Your offices are in the basement and your minions have moved everything down there for you." She opened a drawer of Her massive desk, took a box out, and tossed it to him. They were business cards. "Hell, Hades & Purgatory, Ltd. Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

* * *

"You called?" the Devil drawls and Claire fights the urge to scream. Not in fright, mind you, for she's dealt with her fair share of evil things over the years, but in frustration.

"Goddamnit Mike!" she says, whirling on her Guardian Angel. "First you tell me not to touch the book, then you tell me not to read from the book. And then, to top off this particularly strange day, you do both those things and the friggin Devil shows up!"

"Stop cussing," Michael says. "And calm down. I know what I'm doing."

"Um, not to interrupt or anything," Lucifer says from the doorway, "but could someone please tell me what I'm doing down here?" He frowns. "And why am I prickly all over?"

Michael sighs, puts down the book. "You're here because I called you and you're prickly all over because we're in a convent."

Lucifer looks around him, takes in the vault, and then pokes his head outside the door. When he comes back into the room, he's itching his arms. "I can't believe you called me to a convent." He pauses, frowns. "This is payback for that thing in Belize, isn't it?"

Michael smirks. "No, but that would be pretty great. And stop panicking - the convent itself used to be a manor home. It's the cloisters you have to worry about and they're one hundred feet to the left of the front door." He points to the Legemeton. "I believe this is yours."

Itching once again, the Devil takes a few steps closer to the book. He leans over, flips back the cover, and grins. "You found my address book," he says. "I've been looking for this for ages."

* * *

They're locked inside the vault. Shortly after Michael grabbed Claire to keep her from punching the Devil in the face, Sister Josephine arrived and announced that the Franciscans were on their way. Instead of asking for advice on what to do, the 85 year old nun took the situation into her tiny hands and shut the vault door, turned the handle three times, and effectively locked the Devil, Archangel and prophet inside.

"Worst day ever," Claire says quietly. She turns her head to the side and frowns at her Guardian Angel. "Please tell me you have a plan. Please tell me you didn't get me locked in a vault where I'm going to suffocate to death while the two of you reminisce about the good old immortal days."

"Balthazaar!" Lucifer shouts and he comes to stand in front of Michael and Claire, the book open. He points to a particularly nasty looking creature, all horns and red skin. "I haven't talked to him in ages. Do you remember that afternoon in China with Balty and the Dragon Kings?"

Michael chuckles, but sobers when Claire glares at him.

"Not the time, Lucy," Michael says.

"I rest my case," Claire grumbles.

"Alright, look. Here's the plan. I take the book upstairs, Lucy busts you out of here, and you ask Sister Magdalene if you can borrow the forgery of the Legemeton she's been working on ever since Sister Josephine let her examine it."

Claire's eyes go wide. "What forgery?"

Michael grins. "Trust me, Maggie has an exact copy of that book somewhere in her room." He reaches out, grabs the Legemeton from Lucifer's hands.

"Hey!"

"I hate to break it to you, pumpkin, but there is absolutely no scenario in the universe which involves me letting you keep this book. It needs to go somewhere safe where it won't be found by inquisitive minds." He opens his robe and tucks the book inside.

Lucifer's skin tone begins to change. He looks flushed, his cheeks so pink that they're nearly...magenta?

"You've no right to take my address book from me!"

Definitely magenta. And as Claire watches, the Devil seems to grow in size, the seams on his expensive Armani suit tearing.

"It's always the same, isn't it?! She gets Her own way because She's God and I have to give up everything!" He stomps a cloven hoof. "It isn't fair!"

He has horns now, pointy ones that are peaking out of his dark hair. He looks like a magenta version of the Incredible Hulk and while Claire should, by all rights, be freaked out and scared, she instead finds the situation hilarious. And so, in the middle of the Devil's temper tantrum, she begins to laugh.

"Good lord, Lucy, you're purple," Michael says and Claire laughs harder.

"Oh, fuck off." Lucifer deflates like a balloon and his once perfect Armani suit hangs off him in tatters. He's pale once again and the horns and cloven hooves are gone and the expression on his face is petulant.

"Do you know how long it took me to put that thing together?" he asks, pointing to where he believes the book is hidden inside Michael's robes.

"I'll get you a new one," Michael says. "Now, are you going to help or are you going to sulk like a wounded puppy?"

"Technically, I could just leave," he says.

"You could," Michael says. "And technically, I could punch you in the nose."

Lucifer squares his shoulders, straightens his shredded tie. "No need to get violent, angel." He turns his head, looks at the vault door, and blinks twice. The handle turns three times and the door swings open. Claire sometimes hates how immortal beings make everything look so damn easy. "Ms. Rogers, I believe you have a date with a forged address book."

Claire turns to look at Michael, but the angel is gone. The only evidence he was ever there is a large white feather on the reading table. She picks it up, pockets it. When she turns back to thank the Devil, he too is gone.***

"Claire!" Sister Josephine says from the other side of the door. "What iz going on?" The nun peers inside the vault. "And where iz Michael?"

She sighs. "I'll explain it later, Mother Superior. Right now, though, I need to speak with Sister Magdalene about a book."

* Lucifer wasn't exactly sure what these acts were, but he was determined to engage in as many of them as he possibly could before She figured out he was gone. He'd heard something about meat on Fridays...and it sounded naughty.

** For the record, the Devil really is an arrogant little bastard.

*** Knowing there were nuns on the otherside of that vault door, Lucifer did what was asked of him and immediately got the Hell out of there. He may be a lot of things, but the Devil isn't stupid.

Dear France, Stop Digging Sh*t Up. Love, Claire (Part 2)

2010-07-14T14:38:00.001-04:00

As convents go, St. Luac is a pretty sweet pad. Twenty five rooms, a grand hall for dining, an overstocked kitchen run by a local woman who doesn't speak a word of English, or French for that matter, and a conservatory in the back with a panoramic view of the village and hills beyond it. Sister Josephine led them to the conservatory then disappeared back inside with mumblings about lemonade and making themselves comfortable. Claire is lounging in the chair closest to the door while Michael is sprawled out on the settee, his eyes closed and his wings rustling with contentment.

"Tell me again what a grimoire is," Claire says.

Michael's eyes stay firmly shut. "It's a spell book. This one in particular is the Legemeton. Belonged to King Solomon at one time."

"And why does She care about it so much?"

Michael's mouth curves upward in a coy smile. "It's one of Lucy's oldest and finest. He misplaced it a few thousand years ago and he has absolutely no idea where it is, most likely because it's been hidden in a convent for the last ten years." He opens his eyes and turns his head to look at her. "And lucky you, She trusts you enough to get it out of here in one piece, without any damage to life and limb, before either the Franciscans or the Devil himself realizes it's been here."

"Right. Lucky me." Claire frowns. "I understand keeping it hidden from Lucifer, but why from the Franciscans?"

"Because zey are just as great a nusiance as zat horned goat." Claire starts at the Mother Superior's voice. She cranes her neck around to look over the back of the chair. Sister Josephine stands in the doorway to the conservatory with a tray of glasses and a pitcher of lemonade and Claire instinctively sits a little straighter. Michael, on the other hand, sinks lower into the settee.

"For zuch an old soul, Michael," she says as she sets the tray down on the side table, "you have zee maturity of a zmall child." She smacks the soles of his Converse sneakers. "Zit up, old man."

Michael obeys without comment, though the expression of mirth on his face says most of what he's thinking. Josephine hands Claire a glass of lemonade and motions for Michael to serve himself.

"How did you find the grimoire, Mother Superior?" Claire asks. The glass is sweating in the humid air of France in August. She puts it down for fear of it slipping out of her hand and crashing to the slate floor of the conservatory.

"We were having work done on zee vault, to expand it for zee Cardinal's vizit in zee autumn. Zee workman hit a looz group of bricks, and voila, zee grimoire tumbled to zee ground." Josephine takes a sip of her lemonade and her mouth puckers almost instantly. "Coraline haz an annoying aversion to sugar," she says and sets the glass down. "Anyway, Zsister Magdalene used to be an art forger in Paris and she knew what zee book waz and we immediately locked it away."*

"How is Maggie?" Michael asks with a barely concealed grin. "Still painting your bathroom walls with Da Vincis and Michelangeos?"

To Claire's immense surprise, Sister Josephine smiles. "She haz moved on to zee impressionists. I have a Monet on my bedroom wall at zee moment."

"Mother Superior, not to rush things, but may we see the grimoire?" Claire asks.

Michael's frown is instant and sharp. "Curiosity killed the cat, Claire. Remember that when you're in the vault with that book. Lucy may be a joke Upstairs, but the things he did down here still cause problems."

Josephine snorts and rolls her eyes. "You are alwayz zo dramatic, Michael. Zee girl iz a prophet. I zuspect she would not be here now if she waz inclined to zee dark zide." The words dark side are said with an accompanying eye roll and air quotes and Claire wants to laugh.

"Mike, I'll be fine. This isn't the Death Star, you're not Yoda, and that book most definitely isn't Darth Vader."

"I'm just saying it's evil."

Claire smiles. "Well, duh."

***

The book is gorgeous, despite the fact it's close to thirty thousand years old and glowing unnaturally in the darkness of the vault and overall very evil. Despite all those things, the Legemeton is one of the most beautiful books Claire has ever seen. She surreptitiously checks to make sure she isn't drooling.

"Beautiful, izn't it?" Josephine asks and Claire suddenly remembers she isn't alone in the vault. "Zere iz zomezing mezmerizing about it."

"It's glowing," Claire says.

"Because it's evil," Michael sing-songs from the back of the vault. He refused to come any further into the room than the doorway when they arrived. He's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed and wings out and rustling aggressively.

"Technically, it's what's written on those pages that's evil," Claire says. "The book itself is just leather and linen." She turns to Sister Josephine. "Do you have cloth gloves, Mother Superior?"

"Absolutely."

"Please tell me you're not thinking of opening that thing up," Michael says, pushing off the wall and straightening. "Have you forgotten what happened with Pandora?"**

Claire frowns. "Don't worry, Mike. I'm a librarian. I can handle just about anything."

Famous last words, really.

Claire puts the gloves on, reaches for the book, and immediately drops it on her foot. She howls in pain, the book opens as it lands, and the lights in the vault flicker. Claire pauses in her hopping to look up at the antique light fixtures, wondering if it's a coincidence or something decidedly less easy to explain.

"Oops," she says and Michael sighs.

"I thought you said you could handle anything," he says. "And yet, you, the librarian, drop a damned book."

"The world didn't end," she says, bending down to pick up the book from the floor and set it, still open, on the reading table.

"Yet," Michael mumbles.

She rolls her eyes and turns to check on Sister Josephine, only to find the elderly nun doubled over with laughter. "Zat," the Mother Superior says, breathless, "waz zee funniest zing I have zeen in decades." She straightens, wipes her eyes, and pats Claire on the shoulder. "I zink you may be zee clumziezt prophet I've ever met."

"You should see what she does with roller skates and small children," Michael says.***

"Shut up, Mike."

* * *

"Now remember, don't read aloud anything in the book," Michael says from his position at Claire's left elbow. "There's no telling what might pop up unannounced."

Sister Josephine left them a few minutes earlier to call the sisters to dinner. They have about twenty minutes before she'll return and after a short argument regarding the fundamental morals involved in stealing a holy relic from a French convent (Michael was for, Claire was against - as per their usual debates), Michael relented and is allowing Claire to look over the book while he supervises.

"You're hovering."

"I'm your guardian angel, Claire. I'm protecting your ass from evil."

"Can you protect it from another foot to the left? Your wings are making my arm itch." He shuffles back a few inches and she breathes deeply at the newfound freedom. "Thanks." She runs her fingers over a set of symbols on the inside cover and immediately feels the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Note to self: don't do that again.

"So if the only reason Lucy doesn't know the location of this particular grimoire is because it's within the walls of a convent, what happens when we take it out of the convent?" She leans closer to inspect an inscription on the first page and flinches back when she realizes it's written in blood.

"He shows up and makes a stink and we fight. Maybe."

"I hate fighting. I've ruined more good clothing due to impromptu fights with evil than I ever did working for that children's library in Boston." She shudders at the memory of a $100 winter white wool dress and fifty tiny hands covered in finger paint. "That place was horrible."

He shrugs. "Or I can just take it now, head up without you and hope he doesn't get wind of it."

She suppresses a smile. "Sister Josephine is old, but I'm pretty sure she'll notice an angel shaped hole in her roof."

He thinks about it for a few minutes while Claire continues her inspection of the book. She's just come to the realization that the leather covering isn't really leather but something far nastier when Michael grabs the book from her.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

"Most likely something stupid and regretable." He flips through the pages, finds what he's looking for, and recites a few words in a language she doesn't understand. He puts it back on the table. "Now we wait."

"For what?" she asks, suddenly filled with the kind of dread she associates with evil and calculus tests.

The lights in the vault go off and they're plunged into darkness. Unconsciously (or consciously - Claire's never been good with psychology), Claire searches out Michael's hand in the dark and when her fingers find it, they curl around it. When the lights come back up a few seconds later, Claire instinctively tightens her grip on Michael's hand.

Lucifer adjusts his tie and smiles.

"You called?"

* How, exactly, does an art forger become a nun? By stumbling upon St. Luac while on the run from Interpol and impressing the Mother Superior with her knowledge of not only the great Renaissance painters but also the best American baseball players. Josephine has a weakness for the American past-time and Patricia Hart, formerly of Witchita, Kansas where she was an honest artist and daughter of the local Lutheran minister, needed a place to hide. As Josephine said that evening over tea, even St. Jude would have recognized a lost cause like Patty Hart, even if she was from Kansas.

** And he doesn't mean Pandora and the box, he means Pandora and Claire and the urn in Zeus' office. Pandora convinced Claire to open up the urn and look inside, forgetting that Pandora's Box was actually Pandora's Urn of Terrible Horrible Things. Claire's clumsiness got the better of her and she dropped the urn on the floor, where it broke open and released one final evil into the world: reality television. Truly and utterly terrifying.

*** You really should. It's hilarious and, at moments, gravity-defying.

Dear France, Stop Digging Sh*t Up. Love, Claire (Part 1)

2010-07-08T15:53:00.000-04:00

They're headed to France to save an ancient book from a group of even older Franciscans. It wasn't how Claire had planned to spend her much needed - much deserved - week long vacation from the Houseman Library in Detroit, but all things considered there are worse places she could be headed. Like the mouth of a volcano, which, according to God, was her other option if she didn't like France.

God is mildly unpleasant when argued with before Her morning coffee.

"I hate flying," Michael says from his cramped position next to her on the airplane. She can't complain too much - God sprung for first class seats so at least she has some leg room.

"You're an angel, Mike. You have wings."

He turns his head and frowns at her in such a way that she wants to laugh. "Yeah, so?"

"You, by definition, fly on a daily basis."

"Airplanes are unsafe."

"No, they're not, and what does it matter anyway? You're already dead. I'm the one who should be freaking out right now." She took a Tylenol PM (or three) before they boarded the plane, so while a small part of her wants to freak out, the rest of her is too numb to care. "Besides, you didn't have to fly with me. You could have just met me there."

He turns to look at her and the look on his face suggest he never considered that possibility.

"Sonovabitch."

She smiles and closes her eyes. "Wake me up when we get there."

* * *

Claire has to hand it to the French - they know what they're doing with countryside. The convent at St. Luac is at the very top of the only hill in all of France without an access road, so she and Michael have had ample opportunity over the last hour to admire the gorgeous rolling green of Southern France. Beautiful or not, though, she'd donate a kidney for a four-wheeler.

"How's work?" Michael asks from beside her. They've paused for a few moments to catch their breath and he's been doubled over, hands on his knees and chest heaving, the entire time.

"It's fine. The Houseman is nice." She takes a sip of water from the bottle she stole off the plane and points at him. "You wouldn't have this problem if you stopped smoking cigars."

"I wouldn't have this problem is She just sent someone else to watch over you." He straightens, snatches the bottle from her hand, and finishes it off. "Christ, it's hot down here."

"It's August and you're wearing an overcoat."

He looks down at himself, shakes his head and covers his face.

"You forgot you were wearing an overcoat, didn't you?" He nods and she can see red starting to climb up his bearded cheeks. "You kind of suck at pretending to be human."

"It's been a long week, alright?"* He sighs, shrugs off the coat and leaves it on the ground for someone else to find. Almost as an afterthought, he shakes out his wings and stretches. "Much better." He grins at her.

"You look like a cockatoo."

The grin falters. "You can be a real twit sometimes."

"I love these bonding moments," she says. "They make me feel so warm and fuzzy." She starts walking again, turns around when she doesn't hear him following.

He winks at her. "Race you to the top," he says and takes off through the tree canopy.

She shields her eyes and stares at the Michael shaped hole in the branches. "Ass," she says.

"I heard that!"

* * *

The woman frowning at Claire is barely five feet tall, possibly older than Jesus, and carrying a ruler the size of a redwood branch. Despite her size and traditional black tunic and habit, Mother Superior (a.k.a. Sister Josephine) is hella imposing. Claire is trying very hard not to flinch every time the ruler smacks against the nun's palm.

"Who are you?" she asks and taps Claire's arm with said ruler, punctuating each word.

"My name is Claire Rogers. I'm here about the grimoire."

The woman's crystal blue eyes go wide and the ruler disappears into the sleeve of her tunic and the hard line in her forehead smooths. "Zee holy Mother sent you?" she asks and there's a tone of conspiracy to it. Claire nods. "It took you long enough! I called Her three days ago."

Claire knows better than to be surprised.

"We took the earliest flight, Mother Superior. I'm sorry it took us so long."

"We?" she asks. "Who did you bring with you?"

Michael's timing is impeccable. He appears in the sky, attempts a fancy manuever, and trips himself up just badly enough that he crashes onto the ground in front of Claire and the Mother Superior. He looks up at the old woman through messy hair and grins, waves his hand.

"Good morning, Josephine."

She sighs, turns towards the doors of the convent. "All zeez yearz, Michael, and you are still a child." She motions inside. "Zee grimoire is in zee vault."

Claire offers Michael a hand as the Mother Superior disappears inside the dark convent. "I take it you two know each other," she says as she pulls him to his feet.

"I saved a local girl from a minion once." He brushes the grass off his robes. "She didn't approve of my methods."**

"What did you do?" she asks as they walk towards the doors.

"I singed off his tail."

Claire shakes her head and follows the Mother Superior inside. Michael stares after her, hands raised.

"What?" He shakes out his wings, heads towards the door. "I apologized eventually," he murmurs. "Not that the bastard deserved it."

Josephine's voice filters out from the darkness. "I heard zat."

* A long week in the Pearly Gates is like eight long years on Earth. Like two terrible Presidential terms. Like failing high school - twice.

** It was the one time in his existence that Michael was actually wrong. The minion wasn't actually going to hurt the girl, just take her out for ice cream. In hindsight (no pun intended), he should have asked why the little girl looked happy and what the spoons were for.

Let Me See Your "Evil League" Card

2010-06-29T14:50:00.006-04:00

Claire isn't entirely sure how it happened, and if asked she'll chalk it up to Irish luck or something equally implausible, but she, crazy Claire Rogers who talks to herself in the quad at lunch and who, occasionally, breaks into long streams of Aramaic, has a date.

A real one, with a real boy. Or man. Or minion. He could, conceivably, be a minion. She has that kind of luck.

"What if he's a minion?" she says to her roommate, Veronica. Her voice is muffled by the closet. She pulls her head out and frowns. "I have nothing to wear."

"Well," Veronica drawls, her eyes never leaving the page of the magazine in front of her, "if he's a demon then it doesn't really matter what you wear."

"Minion."

"What's the difference?"

"I'm not really sure, but I think it has something to do with the number of evil deeds performed in a workday."

Veronica looks up from the magazine and one sculpted eyebrow arches up over one violet colored eye. There's a calm expression on her face, but Claire can tell she's having a hard time keeping her comments to herself. Veronica half smiles, the left corner of her mouth quirking up in surrender of Claire's "alternative" lifestyle.*

"Wear the green dress, the one you bought at Macy's for that Christmas party we never went to."

Claire looks in the closet, sees the dress, and immediately remembers why they didn't make it to that particular party that particular evening. "I apologized for that, right?"

Veronica smiles and her eyes go back to the magazine. "You did, but it wasn't a problem. I'd never been to Alberta in winter."

"God, that was cold," Claire says, shivering at the memory.

"Word."

* * *

His name is Leonard Hart and he's an architecture graduate student from somewhere in the midwest. He looks like the love child of a farm boy and Brad Pitt and Claire, in all her post-Armageddon-realization horniness is having a very hard time not jumping him in the waiting line at the restaurant.

She can practically hear God's voice chanting in her ear.

I will not jump my date in public...I will not jump my date in public...

"What did you say you were studying?" Leonard asks when they're finally sitting at their table and Claire shakes her head to clear all inappropriate thoughts before attempting to talk, lest she open her mouth and a comment about his absolutely gorgeous ass come spilling out.

"Library science."

His farm boy face lights up with a smile. "You mean I'm on a date with a sexy librarian?"

Men this attractive do not ask Claire out on dates. Men who look as though they've never left their mothers' basements and who often have imaginary conversations with people Claire cannot physically see (and she can often see imaginary persons) ask her out. So the fact that there's an incredibly attractive man seated across from her calling her a sexy librarian is just enough to make Claire wonder if it's possible to spontaneously combust.**

"It looks like it," she says with a smile.

They order drinks - hers is a Tom Collins and his is a scotch, a nice one, nearly 50 years old - and talk a little more about where they came from, where they're hoping to go. In fact, they're getting along so well that Claire actually starts to feel normal for once in her life. She's envisioning Sunday mornings spent reading the newspaper in bed while her super hot farm boy boyfriend makes coffee in the kitchen.

In this scenario, Claire isn't a prophet of God. Instead she's a librarian. A sexy one. With glasses.

But then Leonard coughs and Claire catches a whif of brimstone and all wonderful, fluffy thoughts fly out the window as she realizes the super cute, super adorable man sitting across from her is a minion. Either that, or he's swallowed half a dozen charcoal brickets before dinner.

"Sonovabitch," Claire says and Leonard pauses, his glass of scotch halfway to his lips.

"Pardon?"

She frowns at him, instantly aware of exits and escape plans. She doesn't get along with little Lucy's henchmen, especially the pointed ones.

"You're a minion," she says and his mouth opens in suprise, "aren't you?"

Leonard seems to shake out of his surprise, brings the glass all the way up to his lips and finishes the remaining scotch in one long sip. He sets the empty glass on the table, rests his forearms in front of him and leans forward slightly.

"Let me guess: you're a prophet?" Claire nods and he hangs his head. "I should have known."

"Should have known what?" Claire's a minute or so away from realizing one of her lifetime goals of having a hysterical fit in public.

"That it was too good to be true." He leans back in his chair, motions for the waiter. "I knew there was something off about you."

Claire is relatively new to dating, having spent the better part of her adult life thus far in the service of God, but she does know that in this scenario, she isn't the strange one.

"Something off about me?" She throws her napkin on the table. "You're one to talk, considering you're evil."

"Excuse me, but that's mostly a matter of opinion."

"You're a minion of Lucifer," she says. "Of course you're evil."

His head snaps up and his (gorgeous, simply gorgeous) green eyes go wide. "You thought that because I was a minion, I worked for Satan?" he asks, offended. Claire nods and he snorts in disbelief, creating another small cloud of brimstone. "That's profiling and it's just plain rude."

"You work for Hades, then?" she asks and he nods. "What are you doing up here?"

"Persephone just got home, so he gave us all the month off. I'm finishing up my degree."

Claire spends a few seconds processing the fact that he's a minion finishing a Master's Degree - they may be an annoying bunch, but even the undead have a right to an education - before moving onto the fact that he works for Hades and not Lucifer. She really should have figured that one out, considering he doesn't have any visible horns. All of Lucifer's minions have an afro of some sort so they can cover up their nubby horns. It makes them very hard to take seriously.

"I suppose, then, that I owe you an apology," Claire says. She hates being wrong, yet another terrible personality trait she's learned from God.

"Yes, you do," Leonard says and while his face looks serious there's a hint of amusement in his voice that makes Claire smile.

"Look, you work for Her long enough and you start stereotyping everyone and everything. I should have realized you weren't evil."

"The hair?" he asks.

She shakes her head. "Your name is Leonard and your jacket has elbow patches."

The farm boy smile lights up his face and Claire's legs tingle. This time, God's voice is chanting He's evil, don't sleep with him, and Claire is pointedly ignoring it.***

"How about dessert and a cup of coffee?" Leonard asks.

Claire weighs the pros and cons.

Pros: he's ridiculously attractive, he finds her attractive, and there's every indication she could get lucky if she plays her cards right.

Cons: he works for one of the founding members of Hell, Hades & Purgatory, Ltd, and most probably has coffee with Satan at least once a week.

To be honest, it's a fairly balanced list. Then he smiles again and Claire's legs tingle and her hormones tip the pro scales.

"Dessert and coffee sounds good," she says. "Breakfast sounds better."

"Check please!" He stands, holds out his hand. "Best apology ever," he whispers as he pulls her to her feet, then he rests his hand on her lower back and this time it isn't just Claire's legs that tingle.

*Understatement of the year. Being a Goth is "alternative". Being a Prophet of God is "super crazy nutso".

** Claire knows that it's possible, thanks to that one night in Florida two years earlier. Not even minions, who toil in the ridiculously hot sub-levels of the Pearly Gates, can withstand the heat of August in Florida. Interesting bit of trivia: minions don't just die when they overheat - they explode. Kaboom. No amount of dry cleaning will get exploded minion nastiness out of a silk dress.

*** Someday, God will regret the immense impact She's had on Her favorite prophet, especially when it comes back to bite Her in Her holy ass.

The Promotion's the Thing!

2010-06-02T15:44:00.002-04:00

Elohim, only child of Yahweh, has a sneaking suspicion her Father is leaving.

It could have something to do with the three suitcases and the hideous Hawaiian shirt.

"Um, Dad, where are You going?" She asks around a mouthful of Her morning oatmeal.

"I'm retiring," He replies, His thunderous voice firm and resolute as always.

She has a hard time swallowing the oatmeal. "Retiring?" She chokes out and He nods, pats the pockets of His shirt and cargo shorts. "You haven't even finished creating the solar system and You're retiring?"

He continues to pat down His pockets. "It's practically done. All that's missing is a couple of planets suitable for life. You can manage that, can't You?"

She's pretty sure She can't, but She doesn't feel like being lectured on believing in Herself so She changes the subject. "Well if You're retiring, who's going to run the place?"

"Aha!" He finds what He's looking for - a key ring packed full of shiny keys - and grins at His only daughter. "You are. You're going to take over Heaven."

"What?!" He hands Her the key ring and She shakes Her head, scoots Her chair away from Him. "No. Absolutely not. I'm managing the angels right now and I like my job. No planets, no paperwork, just feathers and halos. Get someone else to do it."

He sighs. "There isn't anyone else."

"What about Gabriel?" she asks, desperate. "He came of age a few hours ago."

Yahweh gives an indignant snort. "Gabriel is a lovely archangel, he really is, but he's a half-wit when it comes to business." He tosses the keys to Her and without really wanting to, She catches them. "It's really easy and I left instructions in My office - Your office. If You need anything, just give Me a call."

"But, Daddy..."

He holds up a massive hand. "No buts about it, Ellie. You're old enough to take over and I'm old enough to retire. Now, Lucifer will be around and You know that he's always been a great help to Me."

She cringes at the idea of working closely with Her Father's assistant. Lucifer is the only angel She's ever met who wears three piece suits on a daily basis. Not to mention that he always wears a red tie. Every single day.* There's just something off-putting about him. It doesn't help that he's mildly attractive...in a pointy kind of way. Not that She'd ever admit that to anyone but Herself.

"Lucifer's creepy," She says and Her voice has a petulant quality to it.

Yahweh frowns. "Don't be rude, Ellie," He chastises and leans over Her to plant a kiss on the top of Her caramel colored curls. "I'll check in when I get settled, see how things are going. In the meantime, start moving into Your new office."

"Yes, dad."

"And be nice!"

She nods and He disappears in a flurry of Hawaiian print and hairy white legs. She stares at the spot He occupied a second earlier and does the one thing that seems natural in a situation such as this: She bursts into tears.

That's how Lucifer finds Her a short time later, crying into Her oatmeal with all the grace of a pool of primordial ooze. He offers Her his hankerchief and a sympathetic smile and She surprises Herself by accepting both.

"It'll be okay," he says and She's tempted to believe him. Even if he is wearing a designer suit and a red tie. "I'll bet You're wishing He'd given those keys to someone else."

"Goodness, yes." She breathes a sigh of relief at Her admission and smiles inspite of Herself. "My Father said you'd be available to help Me out, to get things settled."

She's so focused on his tie - there's a subtle pattern to it that She can't quite make out - that She doesn't see the angry frown that crosses his face.** When She finally does look up, he plasters on a fake smile and nods. "Absolutely."

"Great." She claps Her hands together. "First order of business, help Me move My office to the Penthouse."

"Agreed," Lucifer says, standing and offering Her a hand up. "Second order of business, celebrate Your new promotion with a drink."

A little voice in the back of Her head that sounds suspiciously like Her mother explains that a drink with an employee probably isn't the smartest way to start off as God, especially an employee who's eyeing Her like She's dessert for his five course meal.

She does what She usually does when She hears that voice and ignores it.

She shrugs. "What harm is there in a drink?" She asks with a smile and takes his hand.

Never let it be said that God doesn't occasionally make bad (horrible, terrible, irreparable, etc.) decisions.

* She thinks that when they finally do create a planet that can host intelligent life, it'll eventually be overrun by people in three piece suits wearing red ties. It's the main reason She sticks to angel management - fewer nightmares.

** A long time ago, Lucifer got it into his head that Yahweh was leaving the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven to the Angel. Imagine his surprise when he discovered Elohim was the new boss in charge. He can't decide what's pissed him off more - the fact that he didn't get the job or the fact that he bought a new tie specifically for the occasion. A blue one. Goddamn nepotism.

When You Talk to God, It's Prayer...When God Talks to You, It's A Job

2010-01-07T21:24:00.017-05:00

It's Claire's freshman year of college and she's discovered that not only is Library Science a difficult and time consuming major, but that it's also impossible to make friends when God decides to use you as Her own personal errand girl every spare moment you have. When she isn't studying, she's traveling from one church to another, fielding questions about the great beyond, and generally providing nonsense prophecies straight from God's mouth to the masses. On two separate occasions, she's been asked about the apocalypse - as if she knows anything about an apocalypse.

All in all, Claire's beginning to think the agnostics have it right.

"You're daydreaming again," Veronica, Claire's roommate, says with a nudge to her shoulder. "You've been staring off into space for the last ten minutes." They've been working on an astronomy project in the library because there isn't the distraction of a television in the library.*

Claire opens her mouth to say she's sorry, that she just has a lot on her mind and that yes, their astronomy project really is important and she'll start paying better attention, but all she manages is a hiccup before a stream of words spill out of her mouth.

And not just any words.

Words in Aramaic.

When she's finished reciting a long list of words in a dead language that existed back when Jesus was, quite literally, an enlisted man, Claire's faced with the fact that Veronica has witnessed it all and is currently staring at her as though her head has just spun around completely.

"I just recited a long list of words in Aramaic, didn't I?" Claire asks and Veronica, wide-eyed and sweating fear, nods quickly.

"Why were you speaking Aramaic?" she asks and Claire shrugs, flushes with embarassment.

"Would you believe it's because I'm a prophet of God and occasionally She drops things off in my brain?"

Veronica, to her credit, doesn't scream or run away. Instead, she stares at Claire for a few moments longer. Claire can see the wheels turning in her roommate's head and she starts thinking about where she can move.

"First of all," Veronica says when her voice returns, "what were you reciting?"

Claire racks her brain for the few words in Aramaic that she knows, thanks in part to Jesus and his need to show just how smart he is while ordering coffee at the cafe Upstairs, and comes to the realization that either God dialed the wrong number or She's playing a very horrible practical joke on Her so-called favorite prophet.

"I'm pretty sure it was a grocery list."

Veronica's eyebrows jump up. "God has a grocery list?"

Claire manages a small smile. "She has a soft spot for chocolate and anything crunchy. Kettle chips in particular. Chocolate covered kettle chips are even better."

"That sounds disgusting," Veronica says.

"Actually," Claire says thoughtfully, "they're not that bad."

"Noted."

The two women stare at each other a few moments longer before turning back to their astronomy textbooks.

"I'll talk to the Dean tomorrow about moving to a different room," Claire says quietly, still focused on the page in front of her, which, ironically, explains the creation of black holes. Claire thinks she'd give her right arm for a black hole to open up and swallow her whole right now.

"Why would you do that?" Veronica asks, equally quiet.

Claire looks at her roommate out of the corner of her eye. "Um...because I'm crazy and recite grocery lists in Aramaic?"

Veronica never takes her eyes off the page in front of her, but she does smile.

"Claire, I was raised by Baptist parents in a Catholic state, surrounded by Muslims and Jews. I don't think you're crazy." Her smile widens. "And I always suspected God was a woman."

"You really don't think I'm crazy?" Claire asks, finally looking up.

"I really don't think you're crazy. Now help me figure out these damn equations." Veronica frowns at the textbook. "If I wanted to do math, I wouldn't have declared an English major."

* * *

It's her weekly dinner with Michael and they're sitting at a booth in the only Applebee's in downtown Boston. Claire still can't figure out why Michael insists on always eating at chain restaurants, not when she lives in one of the best food cities in America, but she figures he endures many a meal created by Annapurna** where the curry could melt iron, so why not let him indulge in tasteless mortal cooking every once in awhile.

"So I ended up telling my roommate about my other life," Claire says and Michael chokes on his beer. She frowns at her guardian angel. "Don't get upset," she says. "I didn't have much of a choice."

"Of course you had a choice," he sputters. "There's always a choice."

"Can we please save the philosophical conversation about good and evil and choosing sides for another time, preferably when I'm the legal drinking age and can order something harder than lemonade?"

He sighs and motions for her to continue.

"Anyway, we were sitting in the library, working on our astronomy lab, when all of a sudden I burst out in Aramaic. It's not like I can play that off as a practical joke. It's a dead language!" She stabs the cherry tomato in her salad with more force than is necessary and watches as it sails off her plate and hits the guy sitting behind Michael in the back of the head.

"Was it a prophecy?" he asks, coughing in an attempt to hide laughter. Claire sees through it and frowns at him.

"No, and that's the worst part." She stabs a cucumber slice and points at him with it. "I'm pretty sure it was a grocery list."

He gives up and laughs. Claire ignores the vibrations in the booth and the floor. The guy who got hit with the cherry tomato a moment or so earlier says something about earthquake tremors and the Richter scale.

"How did Veronica take it?" he asks, still laughing slightly. He wipes tears from the corners of his eyes.

"Pretty well, all things considered." She contemplates the final cherry tomato on her plate, tries to decide the right angle of attack. "She didn't think I was crazy, which was refreshing."

"Let me guess, she was raised by Baptists."

Claire arches an eyebrow. "How did you know that?"

"My best friend is the Creator of the Known Universe," he says a little too smugly. "How do you think I know that?"

She doesn't mean for the cherry tomato to smack him in the forehead. Honest.

* Neither of them can figure out why, exactly, astronomy is a required class for either of their majors, but apparently black holes have a lot to do with library science and english. Claire thinks that black holes, in this case, are a metaphor for children.

** Annapurna is the Hindu goddess of food...and she likes curry. The hotter, the better. Claire once saw Michael eat an entire plate of Annapurna's curry chicken and rice - there was literally steam coming out of his ears the entire time. On the bright side, it got the wrinkles out of his wings.

Jesus, He's an Aries...or is it Capricorn?

2009-12-07T09:15:00.010-05:00

The author would like to apologize for taking her sweet ass time posting a new adventure. Her only excuse is laziness...and a lack of inspiration. She hopes you'll forgive her and keep reading.

Christmas wasn't originally a religious holiday. No, the Pagans laid claim to those few days around the New Year early on and everyone stripped down to their birthday suits and danced around a really warm, really big, fire for a few hours, laughing and carrying on. God can't, for the life of Her, understand why Her Father didn't approve. She'd much rather be carousing in the Pagan Wing than sitting through Her hundredth meeting on all things Christian.

"Remind Me again when Jesus was born," She whispers to Metatron and the lanky Brit stifles a laugh. She frowns at him. "Seriously, I thought it was March."

"It is March," he says around a quiet laugh.

"Then why in My name are we celebrating it in December?"

Before Meta can stop Her, She raises Her hand and the little Mormon Office Manager, a man who obviously volunteered for his position as Committee Chair because he thought it would bring him closer to God, stops mid-sentence and nods at Her. "Yes, hi. I'd like to know why we continue to celebrate Christ's birthday in December when he was born in March."

Metatron is laughing outright now, shaking with the hilarity of watching his Boss question the dogma of Her own religion. The little Mormon Office Manager - whose name is Norman, according to the nametag on the breast pocket of his short-sleeved Oxford shirt - seems baffled.

"Excuse me?" he squeaks - literally squeaks - and God shrugs.

"I'm just saying that we're constantly three months early with his birthday celebration. Did you ever think that maybe it bothers him that we throw a huge party three months beforehand but don't do anything on the actual day?"

Everyone in the room, excluding Meta, is staring at God like She's just grown an extra head.* Meta is simply laughing his ass off, quietly and as professionally as he possibly can.

"I'm not sure I follow..." Norman the Mormon says, his voice still high and confused.

God huffs a sigh. "Nevermind," She says and waves Her hand. "You were droning on about centerpieces, I believe," She says. "Please continue. I'm on the edge of My seat with anticipation."

Everyone in the room blinks, settles back into the monotony of the meeting. She leans back in Her chair and crosses Her arms over Her chest. Meta leans in close.

"Admit it," he says, "You do it just to screw with them."

She says nothing but the grin that spreads across Her face is more than a little telling.

* * *

She's having lunch with Jesus on the veranda of Her office, which just so happens to be the tallest point of the Pearly Gates Corporation. This is important to note because it also just so happens that Jesus is afraid of heights.

"Can we please go inside?" he whines, violently stabbing his fork into a piece of chicken.

She frowns at Her half-brother. "You know this fear of heights thing is getting old," She says. "It's not even that high, for Mysake."

As though to prove Her wrong, an eagle swoops past and drops what looks like a small piece of intestine on the veranda floor.** Jesus frowns at the entrail and then at Her. She shrugs, takes a bite of Her roast beef.

"So maybe it's a little high up," she says around her sandwich.

"Why am I up here, Ellie?" he asks.

"Because I have a question for you." She swallows Her bite of sandwich, dabs at the corners of Her mouth with a pristine white napkin, and settles in for a conversation. "When would you prefer to celebrate your birthday - in December or in March?"

This is a difficult question for him and it makes him pause long enough to forget that he's 600 stories above ground (which is technically already a million miles above the actual ground).

"But I thought my birthday was in December," he says, confused.

"It's actually in March, but we can celebrate it in December instead if you'd like."

"Well don't we always celebrate it in December?"

She tries not to smite him, explains in great detail to Herself the consequences of smiting the Holy Savior of Mankind, and in the end opts for a frustrated sigh instead of turning Christ into a smoldering pile of ash.

"Jesus, I'm trying to explain to you that there's an option here, that those dingbats downstairs have been celebrating the wrong day all along and that if you'd like, I can get them to start celebrating the right day."

"Oh." He closes his eyes, gives the option serious consideration for all of a moment or two. When he opens his eyes again, he's smiling. "Let them celebrate it in December if it makes them happy. What do I care?"

The nervous tick in the corner of Her eye She thought She'd outgrown is back with a vengence. She can't smite him, but She can definitely make sure the eagle's aim is a little better the next time it flies by. A little intestine in the eye never hurt anyone.

* * *

"I can't believe You asked him," Michael says with a laugh as he pours God another shot of scotch. Behind them, Metatron, who is currently on his third glass of the strong amber liquid, is attempting to perfect a bow tie with his cravat. It isn't going altogether that well.

"I was honestly curious," She says in Her defense. "And besides, Atla said she could definitely get those entrail stains out of his robes."*** This statement receives a loud snort of laughter from Metatron and God turns to glare at him. "I can't believe you're laughing at Me right now," she says, "you, who has his hand stuck in a bow tie."

Meta sticks his tongue out at Her and attempts to free his hand. She turns Her attention back to Michael.

Michael shakes his head as he grins at Her. "You had Prometheus' eagle land a large piece of nastiness in the center of Your half-brother's forehead because he was annoying You with his typical flightiness."

It's God's turn to giggle slightly. "You should have seen his face."

"I'm quite glad I didn't, seeing as how it was covered in gore." Michael sips his scotch thoughfully. "So what's the verdict, then?" he asks. "March or December?"

"December. Humans are not as adaptable as they used to be, sadly." She downs the last of Her scotch and hands Her glass to Michael for a refill. "I mean, really, I've been trying for hundreds of years to convince the religions of the world that I'm a woman and still the new arrivals think St. Nicholaus is their guide through the afterlife."

This makes Michael chuckle. "I love when they finally realize he's actually Santa Claus."

God grins. "Even better is when they ask him why they didn't get a red Schwinn bicycle for their 10th birthday and he goes off on a rant in German about not being a damned magician." God laughs at the memory of seeing St. Nick smack a fifty year old dead investment banker upside his head when the man asked the saint that very question.

"Um, guys," Metatron says and they turn to look at the Voice of God, having both forgotten that he was behind them. He's somehow gotten both of his hands tied into the knots of his cravat and as a result, the index finger of his left hand is stuck up his left nostril. "A little help, please."

They'd like to help, they really would, but it's just impossible to help someone when you're laughing too hard to see, much less untie a knot.

* She hadn't grown an extra head, mind you, but that's not to say She couldn't...or even that She hasn't on past occasions. It's the main reasons She no longer drinks the punch at the Greek Wing's Annual Summer Festival.

** She's requested on more than one occasion that Zeus move Prometheus and his damnable eagle to a different part of the Pearly Gates complex - preferably somewhere far away from Her veranda - but the Greek Father of the Gods has seen fit to ignore Her each and every time. She's tempted to make Zeus eat lunch with Her one afternoon so he can end up with entrails on his plate by accident. Yummy.

*** Atla is a Norse water goddess...and a giantess. If the stain won't come out with water, God is fairly certain Atla will just scare it out.

Because the Dragons Ate the Horses

2009-11-16T09:12:00.015-05:00

"I'm bored."

This statement, coming from God, cannot bode well. In fact, Metatron has seen his fair share of bad ideas stem from God declaring She's bored, including the time She failed to separate the Chinese Goddess Hu-Tu (fertility) from the God I-Ti (wine) and the entire Roman wing ended up in a crazed orgy for a week.*

"You have a stack of intake forms to sign," Meta says, frowning at Her over the rims of thick black glasses that they both know he doesn't need. "Those poor people are sitting in limbo right now because You haven't signed off on their intake forms."

She sighs and waves Her hand. "What's a few more days stuck in limbo?"

"Have You ever been to limbo?" he asks and She shakes Her head, curls bouncing. "It's a pea green waiting room with magazines dating back to the Big Bang and coffee so thick it has to be cut with a knife. Sign the forms."

She frowns and picks up the stack of forms, begins to scrawl Her signature across the bottom of each one. She's made it through half the stack when the door to Her office bangs open and the Archangel Raphael appears. He's wearing athletic shorts and a t-shirt that says I'VE GOT WINGS, BITCHES and he's carrying a basketball under one arm. He's out of breath, so much so that it takes him a moment or two before he can explain why he's just burst into God's office, unannounced.

"Thanks for knocking, Raph," God drawls and Raphael bends over, gasping for air, holding a hand up in the air as a signal to give him a moment.

"That's six hundred flights of stairs," Metatron says quietly.

"He has wings, Meta."

"It's still six hundred flights of stairs, Ellie."

"Maybe we should install an elevator," She says, tapping Her finger against Her chin. Meta doesn't mention that he's told Her this a hundred times. She likes to think everything is Her idea. "Talk to Loki about it."**

Raphael straightens and he seems to be breathing a little more normally. He points over his shoulder, to the open office door. "I'm sorry I didn't knock," he says, "but it's an emergency."

"What's wrong?" God asks, suddenly alarmed.

"The dragons in the Eastern Religion complex got loose."

This doesn't strike Her as an emergency demanding a six hundred flight workout. "So?" She asks.

"So they ate the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse's horses." His shoulders slump slightly. "All of them, including the four back-ups. They even ate Conquest's horse." He rests his hands on his hips. "Of course he's super pissed because he's just an alternate."

God looks at Metatron and he gives Her a blank expression.

"Still bored?" he asks dryly.

* * *

Oddly enough, it's Death who seems to be the most broken up about losing his two horses. In fact, he appears to be crying very slightly. It's off-putting and more than a little disturbing.

"Not to downplay the loss or anything, but what the hell are we supposed to ride now?" Conquest asks and the other Horsemen look at him with narrowed eyes and a hint of malice.

"You're just an alternate," Famine says, dusting ash from her shoulders. "You don't get to ride anything."

"Hey, my horse got eaten, too," he says petulantly.

"Your horse was ugly," she says.

"Your face is ugly."

"Enough!" God roars. She's listened to their childish sniping for the last half hour while the seraphim and a few satyrs swept up the charred remnants of the heavenly horses. She's covered in residual ash and becoming less and less impressed with Her Horsemen, including Conquest, by the minute.

"Look, the Dragon Kings have apologized profusely for the mishap and they've agreed to get you all new horses, but it's going to take awhile."***

"And how long is awhile, Madame?" War asks, his accent prim and proper as always.

"They're heavenly horses, War. These things take time."

"Ballpark?" he asks.

She sighs. "Another century or so." The Horsemen all begin to complain at the same time and She silences them with a glare. "Hey, I know it's inconvenient, but it's not like there's an apocalypse coming up any time soon, so just relax and We'll fix it somehow."

She leaves them in the capable hands of Raphael and heads back towards the main building with Metatron in tow. He's frowning at Her again.

"What?" She asks. "What did I do now?"

"You forgot about that meeting You had with Mephisto, Lucifer, and Hades a few Pearly Gates weeks ago, didn't You?"

"What meeting?" She asks, completely drawing a blank.

Meta arches an eyebrow at Her. "The one where the four of You decided to have an apocalypse because the world wasn't paying enough attention."

"Oh..." She says, vividly remembering the two hour conference on all things sharp, pointy, and firey. "Shit."

* * *

The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and Conquest are waiting impatiently for God to arrive and unveil Her surprise. She called an hour earlier and asked them to meet Her in the parking lot of the Pearly Gates Corporation. She didn't exactly say what She wanted, just that She had a suprise for the five of them.

"Did you hear?" Conquests asks. War, Famine and Death ignore him, but Pestilence takes the bait.

"Hear what?" he asks. A locust drops out of Pestilence's ear and Conquests watches with thinly veiled disgust as the insect lands on the ground and hops away. Sometimes, he's very glad that's he's just an alternate for this traveling circus.

"She forgot to tell us about an apocalypse. We've only got a month or so in Pearly Gates time before we need to be downstairs for Armageddon."

"First of all," Pestilence says, raising his hand to tick off a list of things on his spindly fingers, "there is no we. It's the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, not five." Conquest wonders what would happen if he punched a Horseman in the face. He immediately thinks better of it, though, when a cockroach crawls out of the Horseman's nose and pauses on his cheek. "Second of all, what's a month in Pearly Gates time equal to downstairs?"

"About five hundred years." Conquest points at Pestilence's face. "You've got something on your cheek."

The Horseman swats at his cheek and the cockroach scuttles away from his hand, coming to a full stop atop Pestilence's nose. "Did I get it?" he asks.

"Nope. Here, let me." Conquest hauls off and smacks Pestilence across the face, hard enough to send the cockroach flying through the air and onto Death's bald head, who idly flicks it onto the ground. "Got it," Conquest says and Pestilence glares at him.

"You did that on purpose," Pestilence whines.

"Maybe," Conquest says with a wide grin.

Conquest is about to suggest the Horseman go blow his nose with some sandpaper when a honking sound reaches the group's ears and they all turn in unison to see God and Michael roll up in a Volkswagon minibus. A green and white Volkswagon minibus. A green and white Volkswagon minibus that technically won't be invented for another four hundred sixty years.

"What is that?" Famine asks and from the driver's seat Michael grins at her.

"This, my dear, is a Volkswagon Mini Bus." He pats the driver's side door affectionately. "Seats eight comfortably, takes diesel so it's not horrible for the environment, and I'm pretty sure there's a stash of doobies in the side compartment in the trunk."

None of them know what a Volkswagon is or what diesel is, or, for that matter, what the hell a doobie is, but they do know that none of what Michael just said equates to a horse.

"Turns out we do have an apocalypse coming up," God says. "So, We had lunch with Porrima and Cassandra**** and asked them what all the hip kids in the future would be driving and they gave Us the idea for this." She's beaming like a proud parent. "Vulcan was kind enough to build it and Loki got it working."

All Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are staring at Her like She's just told them they need to be more touchy feely. Conquest, however, is silently laughing. In fact, he's laughing so hard there are tears streaming down his face.

"What are we supposed to do with it?" Death asks, his voice dripping with disdain.

She stares at them, confused. "You'll use it in the interim, just until your horses are ready." She turns to look at Michael. "Am I speaking in tongues or something?"

"They're just in shock, is all," Conquest says around a mouthful of giggles.

"The Four Volkswagon Minibus Occupants of the Apocalypse," Michael says with a grin he can't contain. "Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"

___________________________________________

* It would have made Hieranymous Bosch blush, and that's saying something.

** Loki is the Norse God of Mischief. God of Mischief making an elevator. Right. That one will end well.

*** Not only are the 4 Dragon Kings incredibly apologetic, but even the dragons themselves seem a little ashamed of themselves. There's a large gray one not too far away from God at the moment who is hanging its head and sighing. She knows this because every now and again the hem of Her dress catches on fire.

**** Porrima and Cassandra are the resident psychics at the Pearly Gates Corporation. They're far more accustomed to visions of death and destruction, so it was a welcomed change of pace when God asked them to dream up an alternative to horses. It helped, too, that She bribed each of them with a box of chocolates She'd stolen from Aphrodite's Love Closet...a place She never ever wants to go into ever again.

Michael, the Archangel. Maybe You've Heard of Me?

2009-11-12T20:04:00.004-05:00

It's lunchtime in the Pearly Gates Corporation and Michael the Archangel is enjoying a turkey club and french fries with St. Nicholaus in the atrium of the main Headquarters. They've had to set up at one of the large tables because it's nearing That Time of Year again and Nick is knee deep in his list of names.

"How many kids this year?" Michael asks and Nick sighs around a bite of roast beef sandwich.

"Too many," he says, his German accent thick and tired. "The mortals, they can't stop having children."

Michael laughs at this and brushes crumbs from his beard. "Too many Christians downstairs," he says and Nick nods his head in agreement. "Not enough heathens if you ask me."

"Speaking of heathens," a voice says behind them and Michael cranes his head around to to smile at his Boss.

"Hi, Ellie," he says and motions to the chair next to him. "Nick and I were just talking about Christmas."

God sits down next to Her favorite archangel and steals a french fry from his plate.

"Is it really That Time of Year already?"

Nick's red pen makes a violent scratching noise and both God and Michael look at the saint with wary expressions. He looks up from his List, pen still poised over it, and smiles slightly.

"Gunther Parkinson was a particularly bad boy this year," he says and shrugs.

God waits until Nick has gone back to pouring over the names in front of him before She turns to Michael and quirks an eyebrow. It's an expression that says I should really give St. Nick a vacation. Michael returns the look with an expression of his own which says Don't worry, he's always been this crazy.

"Moving on," She says with a quick shake of Her head. She hands Michael a slip of paper. "A new charge for you," She says, stealing another fry. "I just put her in the prophet program."

Michael looks at the paper and reads the name. He looks up at God, his eyes wide.

"Isn't this Kate's daughter?" he asks and God nods. "Why are you giving her to me?"

"Because it's a conflict of interest to allow her own mother to be her guardian angel." She grins suddenly. "And because she's going to grow up to be a pain in the ass."

Michael frowns. "This is because of that thing in France, isn't it?" he asks and God's grin widens. "I told you I'm sorry."

"You blew up a convent."

"And killed a demon in the process."

"You still blew up a convent. Demon or no demon, those poor nuns had to move in with the neighboring Franciscans." She glares at him. "You know how I feel about Franciscans."

He laughs, pockets the slip of paper. "I'll get down there this week."

She stands and pats his shoulder. "You'll get down there today," She says and Her tone of voice bears no arguments.

"I'm on my way." He waits until she's disappeared down the hallway that leads to the Celtic wing before turning to Nick and getting the saint's attention.* "I need you to check a name for me," he says. "Be nice to know what I'm getting myself into."

* * *

Claire Elizabeth Rogers is a very cranky six year old at the moment. Her attitude has nothing to do with the weather outside, which is rainy and cold though it's December and should be snowy and freezing, but instead has everything to do with being grounded for having decided to make a snowman out of mud - in her school clothes. She's been relegated to her bedroom, without her coloring books and crayons, until she agrees to say she's sorry.

Claire feels as though she may be in her bedroom for a very long time.

She's halfway through a Nancy Drew mystery when there's a knock on her door and a man with curly golden hair wearing a dark blue robe appears in front of her, smiling. "Hi Claire."

She frowns at him over the top of her book. "Who are you?" she asks, eyes narrowed.

"I'm Michael, the Archangel." He flutters his wings for dramatic effect. "Maybe you've heard of me?"

Claire has not heard of the strange man with wings wearing a robe standing in her bedroom and so she does what her teacher told her to do when approached by a stranger. She screams.

"Holy crap!" Michael hollers and he runs from the bedroom, slamming the door behind him. A very pregnant Kate is waiting for him in the hallway and she's smiling. "You've really let yourself go, Kate" he says.

"Hello to you, too. And I'm pregnant, you idiot."

"Your daughter has a serious set of lungs," he tells her as she comes closer.

"She takes after her mother," she says, her smile wider than before. "How about we try this again and I'll introduce you this time." Michael nods, wings rustling under the robe. "When did you get to be such a scaredy cat?" she asks, reaching past him to open up Claire's bedroom door.

"Right about the same time your daughter started screaming like a possessed monkey."

* * *

It takes only a few words from her mother to calm Claire down and a few more encouraging words from Michael to get her to understand that he's her guardian angel. In fact, once Claire understands exactly what's going on, she thinks the whole thing is pretty great.

"Can you bring me a pony?" she asks over chocolate milk and sugar cookies later on that afternoon.**

"No, but I can make sure you never get thrown off of one." Michael's blue robe is covered in sugar cookie crumbs and the pattern reminds Claire of a starry sky.

"What good is that?" she asks, her mouth full of cookie.

Kate smiles at her daughter and steals a cookie from Michael's plate.

"I'd say that's a whole lot of good, little one," he says and pats Kate's stomach for good measure.

_______________________________

* God has lunch every Pearly Gates Wednesday with the Celtic goddesses Anann, Badb and Macha. They're the triplicate goddesses of war, though since they learned about Cosmopolitan, they've become more like the triplicate goddesses of fashion. Today's lunch has something to do with what's in season for the summer...

** Archangels, like small children, love chocolate milk and cookies. Michael's partial to sugar cookies - the side effect of spending too much time with St. Nick.

Wings and Feathers and Teenage Daughters, Oh My!

2009-11-05T08:21:00.015-05:00

Claire Elizabeth Rogers, future prophet of God and current pain in her mother's ass, is having one of those typical teenager days where absolutely everything goes wrong and she feels the need to write a really serious poem about it and cry over a few soft rock songs. She's nose deep in her diary, pouring her heart out, when there's a knock on her door.

"Go away," Claire says with as much petulance as a fifteen year old can muster.*

"Claire," Katharine Rogers says as she opens her daughter's door, "this is ridiculous. You've been up here since you got home from school and your father and I just can't take one more Hall & Oates song." She stretches her neck a little. "We're Peter, Paul and Mary people, Claire."

"You ruined everything!" Claire says, slamming her pen down and closing the diary on it. She'd just been relating to the book the torment of having a mother who insisted upon driving her to school everyday...in her bathrobe. "Sarah Cotter saw you and she told everyone that my mom is a freak, which means I'm a freak. I'll never live it down!"**

Katharine stares at her tearful daughter and comes to a very quick, very irrational decision. She steps further into the room and closes the door behind her. When she turns a serious expression on her daughter, Claire sobers immediately, only a small hiccup belaying her previous emotional state.

"What I am about to tell you does not leave this room, do I make myself clear?" Claire nods her head, her eyes wide. "Good. Now, you are not a freak. I don't care what Sarah Cotter tells you, she's a horrible little child who's been spoiled by her rich parents and who thinks it's perfect manners to treat the rest of the world like her plaything. You, Claire, are better than that for two very important reasons.

"First, because in three more years you're going to become a prophet of God and no one in your graduating class will ever have something so incredible on their resume, and that includes that Hannemaka kid who's already been accepted to Harvard Medical School."

Claire hadn't realized that her mother knew about the job with Heaven, Inc.

"You know about the prophet thing?" she asks and Katharine's expression softens slightly, the corners of her mouth turning up into a small smile.

"Yes."

"But how?"

"That's the second reason." Katharine stands, shakes her shoulders like she's trying to get kinks out of the muscles, and in an instant fills the empty space of Claire's room with wings and feathers and white light.

"Tah-dah!" Katharine says, spreading her arms and wings wide. "I'm an angel."

Were Claire a normal everyday teenager, her first reaction would have been to freak out, but given her past history of having tea parties with God and Metatron in the backyard, Claire is far more prepared for something like this than any mortal should be.

"Holy shit!" she says instead.

"Claire Elizabeth Rogers! Language!"

Claire gets off the bed and takes a few tentative steps towards her mother. The elder Rogers woman is still wearing her work clothes so the wings are highlighted by a very bright polyester pantsuit. Claire doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"You're an angel," Claire says and her mother nods, the wings shifting slightly and filling the room with a sound not unlike plastic moving against itself. "Do you work for God?" she asks.

"Of course I work for God," Katharine scoffs. Even at fifteen Claire has perfected the raised eyebrow. Katharine sighs. "Well I used to work for Her, but I beat Her at cribbage one night and She let me pack up and move down here. I met your father shortly thereafter and the rest is history."

"So when I was little, and I fell through the ice and I told you and dad later on that I was going to work for Heaven, Inc. when I was older, you believed me?"

Katharine smiles fully. "Of course. Who do you think recommended you for the job?"

Claire stares at her mother for a few silent moments, processing the events in her head. She's a future prophet of God who just so happens to also be the daughter of an angel and a mortal. Sarah Cotter is the daughter of a man who owns a poultry packaging plant. Claire decides she's definitely more awesome than her classmate.

"Does dad know?" she asks and Katharine shakes her head.

"No," she says, shaking her shoulders once again. Claire watches as the wings disappear under the jacket of the pantsuit, leaving no indication behind that they'd ever been there. Katharine sits down on the edge of the bed and Claire joins her. "I've always thought that it was the kind of thing that would freak him out."

Claire stares at her mother, her expression serious. "You have a ten foot wingspan, mom. What's to freak out about?"

As Claire's elusive smile breaks out, Katharine begins to laugh and the entire house fills with light.***

* * *

Downstairs, in the dining room, nine year-old Patrick Rogers pauses in setting the table for dinner and looks up at his father. The entire house is filled with light and the little boy is a little confused.

"What's going on, dad?" he asks his father and Harry Rogers, ever the knowledgeable man, simply smiles at his son.

"Your mom's laughing," he says.

Patrick shrugs and finishes setting the table. If he thinks it's odd that his mother's laughter means the house is full of light, he doesn't show it. Even at nine years-old he's learned that somethings are better left unexplained, especially when they deal with either his mother or his sister.

* Fifteen year olds invented petulant expressions. Seriously, a group of them in Norway sat down one day and made different faces at each other until they finally settled upon one which conveyed just enough emotion to say they were upset but not enough to say they actually cared about it.

** Too bad for Claire that her ability to see the future pertains only to Heavenly events. Otherwise, she would have been able to see that in ten years' time, Sarah Cotter will be working with the Chattanooga Traveling Circus as the Tattooed Lady in their Freakshow. Oh, the irony.

*** Not to mention most of a three block radius around the Rogers' house on Beacon Street. Angelic laughter could light an entire planet with one well-timed comedic routine. In fact, when he heard Abbot and Costello's "Who's on First" routine, the Archangel Michael lit up the planet Harpsichord for an entire month. Of course, with Harpsichord being full of invisible beings, no one really noticed a difference.

What's This "Monotheistic" Crap?

2009-10-28T10:12:00.015-04:00

It's been a few years since God moved into Her Father's Penthouse and set up shop for Herself. She's done some redecorating, most notably by removing the heavy velvet curtains Yahweh had installed in His first few years of ruling the universe. She has a lovely view of Her relatively new planet with the curtains gone - all those people wandering around look like wee little ants from up here - and the office has stopped smelling like a mausoleum for departed feet, which is definitely a plus.

Yes, all in all, God has a pretty sweet bachelorette pad. Sure, it's kind of lonely, what with the seraphim and cherubim being a little too young at the moment to pay much attention to anything other than their toys, but that's the downside of taking over in the middle of a rebirth.* She spends a large portion of Her time alone, in Her office, avoiding the few adult members of Her staff simply because She's not quite sure how much they've heard and She'd like to avoid any awkward conversations about The Angel Who Fell To Earth And Ruined Everything.

So when there's an unexpected knock on Her front door in the middle of the night, She's more than happy at the prospect of company so She doesn't think twice about answering it.**

There's a large bearded man standing on the other side of the door and he's taking up the entire expanse of the frame, quite a feat considering how large the doorway to Heaven is. God is eye level with the bottom of his toga and She has to crane Her neck up to see him completely. He's frowning at Her and tapping a lightning bolt against the palm of his hand.

"What's this monotheistic crap?" he bellows and if She'd had feathers, his voice definitely would have ruffled them. Behind him, hidden by his girth and height, She hears a chorus of agreement and she sighs heavily.

"You might as well come in," She says and stands aside so the huge hulking frame of Zeus can fit through the doorway. He's followed by a whole hoard of gods and goddesses, Greek and Roman, Eastern and Western. By the time they've all made themselves comfortable in Heaven, God has just enough room to close the door behind Her and politely ask Thor to take his hand off Her ass.

"Shall I make some tea?" She asks and is only slightly relieved when no one says 'yes'.

* * *

"How many times do I have to say this, I never suggested monotheism."

It's been two hours of ranting and raving from every god, goddess and lower demon within a million mile radius of Heaven and God has just about lost Her calm demeanor. She's tired and She'd very much like to go to bed, but the stairway to Her bedroom just happens to be blocked by Shiva and while She's all for multiple appendages, his fifteen finger symbols are freaking Her out.

"Then who did?" the dragon asks from the back of the foyer.***

God sighs and pinches the bridge of Her nose. "If I had to take a guess, I'd say My Father had something to do with it."

"And who made him the supreme god?" Jupiter asks and while God realizes that he's going for thundering and commanding, She can't help but laugh at the whiny feminine tone to his voice.

It's at this precise moment that a door opens somewhere in Heaven and a very tall, very thin creature appears. God can't be certain, nor would she pass judgement considering her own unicorn pyjamas, but She thinks that the orange pants and leopard print sweater are a bit much for a heavenly gathering.

"Ah, good, you're all getting along." The poor fashion sense is accompanied by a very uptight posh accent and God has a sudden sense of foreboding. The lanky creature, who has purple hair cut in very haphazard spikes, turns to look directly at Her and he flashes Her a cagey smile.

"And who the Hell are you?" Hades asks from his spot near the stairway.

The lanky creature draws himself up to his full height - a towering 8 feet, 6 inches - and settles his icy green stare on the gods and goddesses before him. Even God is impressed.

"I am Metatron and I am the Voice of God." He looks over his shoulder at Her and winks. "Your Father sent me," he says and God immediately wishes She'd simply stayed in bed instead of answering the door.

"Oh goodie."

* * *

An agreement is reached after a few more hours. It's intention is to unite the many afterlife options into one large corporation - from the Greek Hades and Elysian Fields to the Christian Heaven and Hell, from the Norse Valhalla to the Celtic Otherworld and absolutely everything in between. God even came up with a great name for this new capital venture: The Pearly Gates Corporation.

Now, when Yahweh left Heaven in pursuit of a retirement community someplace less stressful, He left it in the midst of repairs and expansions so that by the time God finished unpacking Her meager possession She had more space than She knew what to do with. Heaven is a sprawling estate, of sorts, with wings and annexes and three hundred floors of offices and conference rooms. Even the basement is a maze of sorts, filled with offices and kitchens and a sauna for the demons who work in the cooler regions of Earth.

In essence, it's a wonder no one thought of this before.

"I call dibs on the Penthouse," She says as Metatron writes down a list of who wants what. Zeus frowns at Her and She stands Her ground. "I've lived here longer," She says. "Heaven, Inc. will take the Penthouse and the angels will work with the other agencies on the floors near the foyer."

Hades elbows his way to the front. "I want the basement," he says and God shrugs.

"Fine by Me, but you'll have to share it."

"With who?"

"With a former employee of Mine who was recently re-hired. Hell, Hades & Purgatory, Ltd. Has a nice ring, doesn't it?" She asks with just the hint of a smile. Hades thinks it over and agrees, then immediately disappears outside to bring his bags in from the car.

"Put the Elysian Fields Agricultural Volunteer Group down there, too, Meta," She says and he nods, scribbles the name down on his parchment. The rest of the group is easy.

Every last remaining polytheistic religion of the world takes the floors in between Heaven and Hell. The Olympians claim the offices in a wing near God's Penthouse, while the Romans stick close to the Mezzanine because of Jupiter's fear of heights. Not surprisingly, the Celts and the Druids take the Atrium and the gardens in back. She agrees to add on a Reincarnation Wing for the Hindu gods and a Paradise for the Muslims. Most of the Eastern religions claim the outer buildings and annexes because of space issues associated with keeping dragons.

Hell, they even manage to have a unicorn, thanks to the Celts.

At the end of the evening, with everyone moving into their respective offices and living quarters, God finds Herself sharing a glass of what the Celtic goddess Anu said was Scotch with Her newest employee, Metatron.

"Thank you for your help," She says.

"All part of the job," he says and toasts his glass with Hers.

"Do you think it'll work?" She asks.

He shrugs. "I think we'll just have to wait and see."

She nods and sips Her drink, mellowed by something called alcoholic content. In fact, She's so mellow that when a squeaky toy thrown from the nursery above bounces off Her forehead, She singes it only slightly instead of smiting it completely.

* Not to mention She's had it up to Her holy Afro with the squeaky toys and rattles. She's had Her patience tested at least a hundred times a day since the nursery opened and while She isn't an advocate of violence, She's one loud and obnoxious noise away from ripping someone's halo off.

** In hindsight, She probably should have changed out of Her bright blue unicorn pyjamas. Then again, with the crowd waiting for Her on the other side of the door, the unicorns most likely kept Her from getting strung up by Her perfectly pedicured toes.

*** She's never met a dragon before, but She suspects they don't typically talk. Unless they're Lucifer in disguise and then it's a whole other situation entirely.

The Bungled Birthday Bash

2009-10-07T13:23:00.008-04:00

"Now," Harry Rogers says, his voice stern and commanding. His six year old daughter, Claire Elizabeth Rogers, looks up at him from her position on a snowbank, pristine white ice skates dangling from her small feet. "The far edges of the pond aren't quite frozen enough for you to be playing on them, so I want you to stay as close to the banks as possible, got it kiddo?"

Claire has been, since her birth, precocious. She prefers her books to friends and, on occasion, her own family. Precocious or not, though, Claire is a horrible listener. In fact, while her father explains the finer points of staying on the thick ice - a truly genius statement that Claire should have really paid stricter attention to - Claire's mind is wandering to the stack of Nancy Drew mysteries she unwrapped three hours earlier.

"I got it, dad," she says smartly and Harry immediately knows she doesn't have it, but he's freezing his ass off and so instead of explaining it yet again, he helps his daughter up off the snowbank and pushes her out onto the ice.

"Remember to stay off the edges!" he calls after her and she waves a purple mittened hand at him as she sprints off towards the six other little girls who have all received the same lecture and have all pointedly decided to ignore it.

He should be more surprised when the ice cracks and Claire disappears, but he's not. Truth be told, he's really only surprised that it took so long - he'd been betting on three minutes, tops.

* * *

Claire's first reaction to her situation is to immediately regret having not listened to her father. Her second is to immediately regret having worn heavy ice skates while going for a dip in a frozen pond. She thinks that sinking would be a terrific feeling if she were capable of breathing under water.

And then she's out of the water, bone dry, and standing in front of the prettiest woman she's ever seen. The woman is tall and elegant and Her skin is the color of caramel, Her hair a wild nest of brown curls that look as though they've been spun with gold. It's the eyes, though, that make Her so pretty. They're bright green, the color of spring grass after it's rained, and they're staring at Claire.

"Hello, Claire," the woman says and smiles. "I'm God."

Claire's mother has told her a million stories about the woman in front of her. Katharine Rogers has described God to a T, right down to the dimples in Her rosy cheeks. Claire knows that the woman in front of her is God, just like she knows she must be dead. Only dead people meet God.

Well, dead people and crazies but the last time she checked, she was pretty much sane, so dead she must be.

"I like your ice skates," Claire says, pointing at the pristine white skates. God smiles, twirls a little so Claire can see the flapping gold wings that stick out from the backs of the skates.

"Hermes gave them to Me," she says and Claire makes a mental note to figure out who Hermes is. "Hence the wings."

Claire considers her situation and, being the precocious and well-read little girl that she is, decides to be as adult about it as she can.

"Am I dead?" she asks and God, to Her credit, doesn't lose a beat.

"Not technically, Claire," She says. "I brought you here, to Limbo, so we could chat a little."

"Chat about what?"

"I'm sending you back with a gift," God says and Claire's attention becomes immediately focused.

"Is it a pony?" she asks. "I've always wanted a pony and my daddy says that if I'm really good then someday he'll buy me a pony but he won't tell me when so I have to be good all the time and it's starting to get really boring."

This lengthy explanation causes God to pause slightly and reconsider her decision.*

"No, honey, it isn't a pony..."

"Is it a little brother?" Claire begins again and God fights the urge to clamp Her hand over the child's mouth. "My mommy says that I could have a little brother if my daddy wasn't so busy all the time with his work. Daddy says that if I have a little brother, it better not look like the milkman because then we'd have to find a new one and good milkmen are hard to find."

God, being the responsible and somewhat omnipotent being She is, realizes at this point that a proper response to all of these admissions is lacking and therefore chooses a different tactic.

“Right. Okay. Well, Claire, here’s My gift to you: you’re going to be My assistant when you get older. You’ll tell people things for Me.”

“Like that telephone game Sarah Truman plays?”

“Yes, just like that telephone game Sarah Truman plays.”

“You know Sarah Truman?”

“Of course.”

“She doesn’t believe in You.”

At this point, God decides to cut Her losses and run and leave the paperwork for someone more patient than Her, someone like Her archangel Gabriel (his penmanship is simply to die for). So, She snaps Her fingers and sends Claire back to her body and her family and jets on back to Her offices at Heaven, Inc. She does, however, make a point of filling out the HI-245 form, Sibling Requisite Form.

She hopes a little brother will be just the kind of balance Claire needs.**

* * *

"I got to meet God," Claire says when she's finally awake and warm.

"Really, and how is She?" Katharine asks her only daughter.

Claire considers this question as she sips her hot chocolate. Harry pauses in the doorway of the living room to eavesdrop on the conversation.

"She's gorgeous," Claire says, "and She had the coolest ice skates. They had gold wings on them!"

Katharine laughs at her daughter. "Hermes made them especially for Her a hundred years ago, so She'd always be able to stay standing up in them. She's a horrible ice skater."

"I'm going to work for Her when I'm older," Claire says and from the doorway Harry laughs. "A nice big office at Heaven, Incorporated."

"Of course you will, dear," Katharine says, unaffected as always. "Now, who wants more hot chocolate?"

__________________________________

* Because of this one incident with Claire, God no longer contracts young children to be prophets. She learned Her lesson the hard way by trying to explain to a six year old the concept of prophetic dreams and visions. Like explaining the difference between a holy vision and an acid trip to a nun, which She’s also done once before...

** When Patrick is born that Christmas, it means Claire is no longer the center of attention, which means she has to learn how to fend for herself, which in turn means she starts listening better. It also helps that later down the line, when Patrick turns fifteen, he decides he wants to be an accountant, a much more down to Earth profession than Claire's. Literally.