I suppose I have always known him.He is etched on my hands like indigo dye, the bright stained-glass blue of his iris embedded in my skin. I cannot look at my fingers without thinking of how his interlock with mine. It is a strange thing to know your flesh is haunted. When I look in the mirror, I see him, grinning arcanely back at me.I know that in the womb, he molded me to his will - I am as much his creation as God's, perhaps more so than the Lord lays claim to me. Like my old china doll, he crafted me, with pale skin and copper hair. He says I am delicate as a robin's egg, with eyes like silver coins to pay the ferryman across the Styx.My fate is inscribed on my palm in indecipherable lines. Only he can read them. What he utters ices the marrow of my bones: “I have written my memories into you.” He read stories from my hands in my youth, would tell me tales of a Paradise long lost. Whether that place is now dust or a graveyard, I do not know. Still, he longs to return to Gan Eden

He laughs, wiping spittle from his cheek. “But you love me.” It is more of a question than a statement.I cannot deny the twisted affection I have for him. He is a lungful of air ten leagues under the sea. The only thing that makes sense in this cold world.“Love is a disease,” I say, toying. That is my favorite game, playing with him. Just as he plays every day with me. Leopard and mouse.“Everything is fatal. Why not gamble, peach princess?”“Because I've never been lucky.”“Fair point.” He lets me go and reaches into his pocket, withdrawing a cigarette. He spits sparks onto the end and lights it. “But a promise is a promise.” He takes a contemplative drag. “Your father said you would be mine. And so you are. The seven times three tithe to Hell.”“What about my choice? Don't I choose whom I belong to, hmm? Are you so centuries out of fashion feminism has yet to dawn on your archaic empire?”He smirks again. “You chose a long time ago. In the womb. I came to your sleeping soul and ma

I set my paint down, turning to him. “I am betrothed to you because the universe demands it. I’m with you because I love you. But I will never be more. This arrangement will be the longest engagement you have ever known. Marriage is for WASPs, not actual wasp girls.”He grins, sly. “I'm the Grim Reaper. I can wait. And time has stopped for you. You aren't growing any older.”I sigh, weary, reminded of the burden of my immortality. “You had to remind me,” I whisper.“I'm sorry-”Anger rises in me. He just keeps damn pushing, like a broken record. “No you're not!” I snap. “You don't care about me.” I swat his hand away. “All you care for is what I am! Your perfect china doll you've stowed away in the attic next to a hammer for the day you feel like smashing it. But you've forgotten something: that doll is adamantine. That doll cannot break.”His eyes flash. “You are the thing I hold dearest, Janet. My finest creation. Of course you are indestructible.”“Then why do you want to break me,

An open-air market surrounds us, wedged between the looming buildings of the street. Gray and black stone dominates, and the pale evening sun picks up the rich reds and yellows of the market tents. Fairytale spices scent the air, and everything is for sale: wishes, desires, sex, violence and hearts. Raw sounds echo from fighting rings as onlookers place bets on mythic creatures egged on by matadors. Vendors try and catch my eye, calling out as they offer firebird feathers and golden apples. Goblin fruit glitters under the early stars on the dusky purple horizon.Strange love makings are enacted in alleys and demonic passion plays block intersections. There are sellers of souls, dealers in death, and strange drugs that can bear a man away on the whimsy of dreams. Above all, there is dancing, a chaotic frenzy as the night market comes alive with music from all quarters of the city. It truly is pandemonium. I weave my way in between dancers, keeping my eyes open for restaurants and food s

“Somehow, you snore like a foghorn. You look like Briar Rose, trapped in a thicket.” “Zzzz… eh?”“How delicate are the farts of a maiden who babbles in her sleep,,” Lussi drawls, naked, morning wood of his double serpent hemipenes crooked up like twin spears to the dawn. His prehensile cocks weep silky gold precum. My beloved husband idly watches me as the Arctic sun shines through the clouds of Vidagol. “Clear blue skies like sailor’s eyes,” he says. My husband’s amaranthine irises glow, his cheeks flushed as he draws the covers closer to my chin, then he tenderly leans into me, tracing the rise and fall of my breasts in fascination. “No lovelier creature has ever been made. I adore you. I worship you. You are all I want.”“Mrph?” I groan. My mouth stinks of sleep, and their is night grit in my eyes.He takes a deep whiff from my mouth. “Morning breath, as usual. Still cute.”I grunt and flip him the godsfinger. “Ten more minutes!” I groan, pulling the covers above my frazzled curls.