A Revision of Revisionism.
So I believe I mentioned a few entries back that I have this on-again-off-again project slated for tentative publication consisting of six thematically-linked short stories. The collective title is intended to be Six to One after a disconcterting tarot reading I received from a friend in our hotel room in New Orleans this time last year, though the actual plot idea was already in existence prior.
Our narrator of the six stories is Satan, as in literally, the Adversary, God's Prosecutor against the scuzzballs of humanity. He's in a supernatural sort of "Odd Couple" relationship with the other pop culture Devil, Lucifer the Fallen Angel, a narcissistic, self-pitying, hedonistic racist (speciesist?) celestial nobleman "fallen" on hard times who refuses to lift a finger to his own recovery, and tags along with ha-Satan on his many and myriad court cases. I have envisioned and even written some drafts on some storylines involving Mikhail Bulgakov, religious syncreticism in the American Indian Southwest, and the prospectively tumultuous father-son relationship between Shiva and Ganesha. Composition is still very much a work in progress, and I am currently trying to rewrite a particularly dense draft entirely from scratch, not consulting the origianl for stylistic purposes until I have the new draft, and from there, hopefully, I can combine the better aspects of the two. This comes from a story in the collection tentatively entitled "Like a Lily Enraged":
" Eloa had wavy brown hair and large doe eyes. Eloa looked so pretty in her white quincenara dress the year prior. Eloa was far too busy cloistered behind her school books, tapping her pencil to the vibrations in her ears named nonsense names, occasionally stealing away for some local entertainment, such as pagan dancers that performed with fans constructed from feathers of birds long since extinct to the region, to notice the lingering looks left in her wake by the village's sons. Her uncle the priest repetitively petitioned Senor Chuey to send Eloa away to a convent somewhere, to blossom safely in the hands of zealous moral cultivation, but his arguments always lacked vindication, so cowardly did he glut the pretentious idol of propriety, hoping that if he fooled even his flesh and blood, perhaps his own flesh and blood would eschew the premonitions of hellfire that tongued his nerves whenever his niece came in sensory proximity.
" And then came the languid afternoon that my friend, the dandy devil, slouched into the plaza."
Our narrator of the six stories is Satan, as in literally, the Adversary, God's Prosecutor against the scuzzballs of humanity. He's in a supernatural sort of "Odd Couple" relationship with the other pop culture Devil, Lucifer the Fallen Angel, a narcissistic, self-pitying, hedonistic racist (speciesist?) celestial nobleman "fallen" on hard times who refuses to lift a finger to his own recovery, and tags along with ha-Satan on his many and myriad court cases. I have envisioned and even written some drafts on some storylines involving Mikhail Bulgakov, religious syncreticism in the American Indian Southwest, and the prospectively tumultuous father-son relationship between Shiva and Ganesha. Composition is still very much a work in progress, and I am currently trying to rewrite a particularly dense draft entirely from scratch, not consulting the origianl for stylistic purposes until I have the new draft, and from there, hopefully, I can combine the better aspects of the two. This comes from a story in the collection tentatively entitled "Like a Lily Enraged":
" Eloa had wavy brown hair and large doe eyes. Eloa looked so pretty in her white quincenara dress the year prior. Eloa was far too busy cloistered behind her school books, tapping her pencil to the vibrations in her ears named nonsense names, occasionally stealing away for some local entertainment, such as pagan dancers that performed with fans constructed from feathers of birds long since extinct to the region, to notice the lingering looks left in her wake by the village's sons. Her uncle the priest repetitively petitioned Senor Chuey to send Eloa away to a convent somewhere, to blossom safely in the hands of zealous moral cultivation, but his arguments always lacked vindication, so cowardly did he glut the pretentious idol of propriety, hoping that if he fooled even his flesh and blood, perhaps his own flesh and blood would eschew the premonitions of hellfire that tongued his nerves whenever his niece came in sensory proximity.
" And then came the languid afternoon that my friend, the dandy devil, slouched into the plaza."