Anecdote I & II

Anecdote I - Le Détestables

In the deepest depths of the underworld there resides a humble, yet magnificent, palace where the demon Mephistopheles readies the dreams of Lucifer every evening. He stands above a crystal ball, in a library of thoughts and vile wonderings, dreaming up luscious horrors and frightful delights, all for the benefit of his master who waits out the fiery day for the delivery of his slumbering visions.

In a corridor to the South Wing of the small, yet magnificent, palace there stands a wardrobe where the demon, Azazel, readies Lucifer’s clothes each and every night. It is here where the lord of darkness has his horns polished, his hooves brushed and his cloak blackened in the tar of searing souls. Azazel is the dresser of the dark one, emasculate in his own right and beautifully disgusting to the mortal eye.

Farther south, in a door at the end of Azazel’s chambers, or around the circular corridor that envelopes and surrounds the humble, yet magnificent, palace, like the walls of an enchanted fire tunnel there lies the chamber of Astaroth, the Keeper of Lucifer’s Fire. There, he sits upon a golden throne, thin and twirling, engulfing the flame of his lord and lover, evoking the passionate suffering of mortals and always residing as his lord’s last stop of the evening.

And so, as Lucifer retires from his throne, and as the mortal moon rises above, unseen by the mountains and pits of tartarus, it is here within this chamber where Lucifer ends each day. Collecting the dreams Mephistopheles had weaved for him, settling into the cloak Azazel had woven for him and retiring alongside Astaroth, with whom he will fall into a deep sleep beside, entwined in a wicked embrace.

Anecdote II - In Rome, She Glistens

By candlelight I sit, recounting the day, listening to words music speaks to me. The tunes, melodies and keys of the piano to my far right tell stories without words. It speaks of scenes without locations. This music, poured forth from the hands of my ward, remind me of the older days. The days when my wife, Isabelle, stood beside me in a strong elegance. It was those days, surrounded by rose pedals and the light embrace of the clear air that freshen my breaths, even in these, my dimmer days.

It is the melody of the past which calls back an old soul to my wandering mind, embracing that old time and remembering the reflections of her pure face, bouncing off of the pond’s surface. Now, by the light of candles, the marble surrounding the window and the face of the youth before me, all of these things remind me of her. It was not sickness that took her from me, nor was it the favors of another lover.

Purely, it was the winds of heaven, the air and the angels which caused her to depart, so dearly. It was on the morning of our fourth anniversary when I awoke to the bright morning to find her levitating above the bed, speaking of things heard only in that place beyond our mortal world. She spoke of what the angels whispered and interpreted the prophets of gospels and the ramblings of old.

It was the angels who spoke though her, enchanting my love with the voice of the clouds. But, it was not to last. No mortal who saw what she had seen could walk the earth, a humble woman. And so, she was taken from me and sent to soar high above the clouds on wings of unparalleled light. High and far away she flew, awaiting the day that I might join her in that place of joy and song.