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...
Monday, March 14, 2011
Friday, March 4, 2011
Gone But Not Forgotten
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.
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.
Monday, February 14, 2011
The Bow and Arrow of Love
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...
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...
Monday, February 7, 2011
Conversations with God - Everything You Ever Wanted to Know
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!
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!
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Author's Note: The 99th Page Blogfest
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.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Yo Momma So Old, She Knows God (Literally)
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?
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?
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
The Tiny Hands of Fate (or an Approximation Thereof)
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.
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.
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