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 wear a terrible toupee 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.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
The Promotion's the Thing!
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.
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.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
When You Talk to God, It's Prayer...When God Talks to You, It's A Job
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.
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.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Jesus, He's a Leo...or is it Capricorn?
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."
"July, actually," 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 July."
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 name tag 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 five months late with his birthday celebration. Did you ever think that maybe it bothers him that we throw a huge party five months afterwards 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 entrails 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 July?"
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 July, 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.
"J-Dawg, 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 vengeance. 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 viscera 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 thoughtfully. "So what's the verdict, then?" he asks. "July 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. Nikolaus is their guide through the afterlife."
This makes Michael chuckle. "I love when they finally realize he's actually Father Christmas."
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 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.
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."
"July, actually," 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 July."
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 name tag 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 five months late with his birthday celebration. Did you ever think that maybe it bothers him that we throw a huge party five months afterwards 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 entrails 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 July?"
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 July, 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.
"J-Dawg, 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 vengeance. 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 viscera 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 thoughtfully. "So what's the verdict, then?" he asks. "July 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. Nikolaus is their guide through the afterlife."
This makes Michael chuckle. "I love when they finally realize he's actually Father Christmas."
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 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.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Because the Dragons Ate the Horses
"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.
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.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Michael, the Archangel. Maybe You've Heard of Me?
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.
"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.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Wings and Feathers and Teenage Daughters, Oh My!
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.
"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.
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