Epitaph of an Angel

Leaves crunched underfoot and the wind bit at her face. She tried to huddle more into her jacket. As she turned her face to avoid another powerful gust of wind, the beautiful rendition of an angel caught her gaze. She frowned as she tried to remember if she’d ever seen the carved gravestone before. She’d been visiting this cemetery every year for the past three years and took the same path. Surely she’d remember something of it’s like. It was so large and lifelike that it must have cost the family a fortune. And it seemed somehow out of place, as if it belonged in a museum somewhere, not in a cemetery that was nearly overrun with undergrowth.

Movement in her peripheral had her tearing her gaze from the gravestone to the man that was quickly approaching and soon kneeling before it. Raven hair fell forward like a shroud and shielded the man’s face from sight. She gasped and the hair fell away as he turned to look at her. Eyes the color of liquid gold bore into hers. Something about him, about those eyes, had her backing away and turning in the opposite direction. Once the man and the angel was out of sight, she broke into a run.

She soon found herself panting before the reason she’d come to the cemetery that day, in spite of the weather and the fact that she was due for work thirty minutes ago. She’d had to come. Today was her “birthday”, or at least the day her foster parents had found her on their door step. She was their miracle, their Moses. And in front of her stood the grave of the woman that had pushed her out into the river. Her biological mother.

“Isabeau Darling”, a smooth voice rumbled behind her. She stiffened and turned to lock eyes with the man that had been kneeling before the angel headstone. He’d followed her and his eyes seemed even brighter up close, as if backlit by some inner light. She shook the errant thought away. He was a man, nothing more, worse, a grieving man and she’d intruded on a clearly private moment.

“I’m sorry – “, she began.

“No need”, he interrupted. “My apologies, I did not mean to startle you.”

She sighed with relief. So, he wasn’t crazy. She forced her lips into a semblance of a smile and attempted to start over. “No, I startled you first. I’m sorry. I was just so taken aback by the headstone. It’s very beautiful.”

“Thank you”, he replied smoothly. “Lilith was her name, and I think she would have liked it.”

What an odd name, she thought. Odder still was his accent that she still couldn’t place. She forged on. “I’m sure she would have. It’s quite the tribute.” She frowned as she found herself saying, “Isabeau was my mother. My biological mother. I’m adopted and I only found out about her 3 years ago but she’s been gone for sometime. Her death certificate says she died only a few days after my parents discovered me.”

Some internal voice told her to quit talking and to walk away from the very strange stranger. He was dangerous, the voice seemed to scream. But try as she might to move her feet, they seemed to be glued to the ground.

The stranger seemed oblivious to her inner turmoil and smiled. Her heart stuttered to a stop. His whole face seemed transformed. Laugh lines made his eyes crinkle and his eyes appeared a darker shade of gold, a more normal shade. The unease melted away and she found herself staring. He didn’t seem to mind. His lips were moving, he was talking.

“-to God”, he finished. He noted her quizzical expression and repeated himself, “Isabeau means pledged to God. It’s a beautiful name. What’s yours?”

That voice came back, only more forceful this time. It told her not to give him her name, to walk away while she still could. She frowned and glanced down at her feet. With her eyes no longer on him, she found that she could move them and that they responded to her commands.

With that newfound knowledge, she kept her gaze on her feet and responded, “I should be going. I’m late for work.”


Lead Me Not Into Temptation

A lazy smile lifted the corners of his mouth. The shape of his lips was downright sinful. Deft fingers flicked the first button on his shirt and revealed a small patch of smooth olive skin. She licked her lips and his eyes darkened as they caught the motion. Another button followed suit and revealed even more skin. As her cheeks flushed, she caught the obvious challenge in his eyes, a dare. Something in her was quaking. A third button revealed a small sprinkling of dark hair. Her lips trembled, a protest on the tip of her tongue. He fingered the fourth button, his brow lifted in question.

“Stop”, she gasped.

His hands dropped to his side and she watched as a mask fell over his face, blanketing his emotions from her. She hated when he did that.

With the mask firmly in place, he began to stalk towards her. She held herself still, as any prey would in the presence of a dangerous predator. Hot air fanned her face as he stopped a breath away from her. 



Walking Corpses

“I’ve heard that sometimes a version of you must die before another more enlightened version can be born. I think that’s true after watching the corpse of myself walk around.”
― Julie Flygare

I saw this quote and it reminded me of those posts that I’d write as letters to the old versions of myself. Julie Flygare put it into words far better than I could. I know I have a few corpses of my former selves lying around. This quote made me think that change isn’t always so bad.


Love Me, Need Me

He grasped her hips and pulled her against him. With his arm wrapped securely around her waist, he swayed them from side to side as his lips trailed kisses down her neck. She felt trapped and safe at the same time. In this moment, he needed her as much as she needed him. She lifted her hands up from where they rested on his chest and threaded them through his hair. Why he kept it long, she never asked and didn’t particularly care. She liked the hair and the man just as they were.

Amber eyes lifted to meet hers. There was so much emotion in them that she couldn’t single one out. Long lashes lowered and shielded his eyes from her as his lips descended to meet hers. There was a question in his kiss and she answered it eagerly. Yes, she said without speaking, I am yours.


The Missing Gargoyle

The fallen glared down at the dead Nephilim in disgust. Did he have to bleed so much, he thought bitterly. He shot a glance at his partner on the roof of the building adjacent to the one the Nephilim resided in. He was keeping watch and would warn him of any unexpected visitors, whether it be fallen, Nephilim, or human. As far as they knew, the half-breed had lived alone and worked long hours, often getting home just barely before the first rays of dawn.

He heaved a sigh and twisted the key into the lock that had been giving the Nephilim so much trouble only minutes before. It twisted with ease and as the knob turned in his hand, he cocked his head. He could have sworn he’d heard. . . something. He glanced over to the rooftop of the neighboring building and frowned. Ephraim was gone.



Was that statuary always there, the man wondered as he jiggled the key in the lock for the umpteenth time. For some reason the lock wouldn’t budge and he couldn’t remember for the life of him when the building next to his had placed such a menacing statue of an angel on the roof. It doesn’t look very serene and angelic, he thought.

The man was so preoccupied with the glaring statue and the stubborn lock that he didn’t fill the quick bite of a knife across his throat till something warm dripped down chest and his knees gave out a few moments later.

As the world faded to darkness, he could have sworn he heard a voice say, “One Nephilim down.”


The Waitress

“He don’t look like much. I don’t think he’s one of them,” said the first one.

The other responded, “How do you know? You can’t tell if he’s Nephilim just by looking.”

The first one didn’t bother glancing at his friend. Instead his eyes tracked the pretty waitress around the diner. “Yeah, you can. If you know what to look for that is”, he remarked after his prey had disappeared behind the counter.

His friend regarded him. He spoke carefully, “Then who do you think it is then?”

The fallen finally dragged his gaze back to his partner. “Why the one that every male can’t seem to keep his eyes off of, including us, despite her not being much to look at”. He resumed his scrutiny of the woman in question.

The other fallen frowned. “The waitress?”, he asked. He too turned his gaze to watch her glide around the diner. Now that it was on his mind, there did seem something. . . off about her, something supernatural. The way she gracefully weaved in between tables, successfully dodging clumsy coworkers with overladen trays and grasping hands of overzealous patrons. The way the sunlight streaming in seemed to cling to her, casting the rest of the diner in shadows in her wake.

Nephilim, he thought, we’ve finally found the last of you.