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"Lucifer walked over to the place on the silver floor where Saraquael had once stood. He knelt, stared desperately at the floor as if he were trying to find some remnant of the angel I had destroyed, a fragment of ash, or bone, or charred feather, but there was nothing to find. Then he looked up at me.
""That was not right," he said. "That was not just." He was crying; wet tears ran down his face. Perhaps Saraquael was the first to love, but Lucifer was the first to shed tears. I will never forget that.
"I stared at him impassively. "It was justice. He killed another. He was killed in his turn. You called me to my function, and I performed it."
""But ... he loved. He should have been forgiven. He should have been helped. He should not have been destroyed like that. That was wrong."
""It was His will."
"Lucifer stood. "Then perhaps His will is unjust. Perhaps the voices in the Darkness speak truly after all. How can this be right?"
""It is right. It is his will. I merely performed my function."
"He wiped away the tears with the back of his hand. "No," he said, flatly. He shook his head, slowly, from side to side. Then he said, "I must think on this. I will go now."
"He walked to the window, stepped into the sky, and he was gone.

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"Saraquael was working there, putting a wingless mannikin into a small box. On the one side of the box was a representation of a small brown creature with eight legs. On the other was a representation of a white blossom.
""Saraquael?"
""Hm? Oh , it's you. Hello. Look at this. If you were to die and to be, let us say, put into the earth in a box, which would you want laid on top of you - a spider, here, or a lily, here?"

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Why should it be so strange that the beast had a mother?
So many of us have mothers.
Go back fifty years and everyone had a mother.

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It was there again, in red stones that glittered,
set into the white marble of the floor,
it said:
Be bold,
be bold,
but not too bold.
Or else your life's blood
shall run cold.

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The bough did bend
The bough did break
I saw the whole
The fox did make
We swore to love
We swore to marry
I saw the blade
The fox did carry

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Nicholas was older than sin, and his beard could grow no whiter.

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There's always babies

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Writing is flying in dreams. When you remember. When you can. When it works. It's that easy.

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