Anomaly (literary fiction) some questionable language
Chapter 1 Sometimes I think about angels, and I’m not talking about those man-made, Plaster of Paris knockoffs either. You know those kind, surely: chubby little bastards blowing kisses from dainty palms, their equally chubby little wings spread wide as a hooker’s legs, a vapid smile curving their mouths. Nope. I don’t think about those kind too much. Too many of them around my parents’ house, you see; so many that I tell people they’re what drove me to the evils of the big city four years ago.
What I do think about are the real ones: the seraphim, the guardian angels, the archangels. Those who fell from Heaven when they followed that most beautiful creature of all as well as those who remained behind, stuck in paradise because they couldn’t manage out-of-the box thinking. Those ones who, all, have smooth expanses of desert where there should be moist oases of genitals. Those beings created for servitude to the glory of God. Ah, no use for genitalia to do what they do; no, indeedy not. And as you know, genitalia is a very big part of life. It rules us by its very nature of flesh and folds.
Still, do angels think about what their existence would be like with genitals: with a clitoris to raise shudders on nerve endings from sole to soul or a sensitive tip to plunge into secret areas and buckle a sac deep into its surrounding body? Or are angels, like only children free from sibling rivalry, simply unable to imagine what they’ve never experienced?
It makes me wonder if God in one of his exploratory moods granted Lucifer one of these accoutrements—or both, even—as an experiment, and ended up giving the creature an understanding of joining that the rest could never imagine.
Is that why they threw theology’s greatest hissy fit?
It might reassure you to know that I do think of other things. I’m just like you; like most folks. I think about the economy and world peace. There’s also the fact that a half-breed is the newest American President, happier to identify with his African side than his Caucasian for now because it ushers in ‘a new era.’ Not that I’m against all that. I think it’s long overdue that a man of African descent could be President. An African American woman? Getting there. Better yet, what about a bi-racial, bisexual, cross dresser for president. We’d be making real strides as humanity there, now wouldn’t we?
It matters to me, you see, that you understand just how like you I am. That I’m really a regular everyday kind of Joe. Or Josephine. Like you I worry about money, about work, about family. See? All very normal for a middle class heterosexual person.
Well, there is the tiny, very tiny, issue of what gender I am, and whether that gender is the same today as it was yesterday, but that’s no big deal. Not really. Not when you remember how much crap is out there in the world to deal with. A little thing like gender relapse is so little to contend with after all.
But still, you want to know and I don’t blame you. Be you woman or be you man, you ask. It’s not a simple answer, to tell you the truth, and that puts me on the far left side of an already leftist rationale.
Let’s just say that for the last six months I’ve been back in my small hometown, I’ve scraped a razor over my jaw every morning and spared my legs the razor. On Friday nights, I throw cologne beneath my armpits then onto my neck and I go out on the town to get laid, which here in rural Nova Scotia, means a thirty minute walk from my crappy little apartment in the south end to the only bar we have.
It has a patina on the outside that makes it look like whiskey has seeped through the boards and enough dank on the inside that you can smell the chlamydia on every surface. No new efforts have gone into keeping the place clean, no new layer of varnish on the heel-gouged dance floor, and so now, no matter which restroom a body goes into, the toilets and urinals have deep tar colored stains that leak stench into the floors and walls. You feel dirty just looking at the sinks.
And it draws crowds like meth addicts to pharmacy brand cough syrup. Thea Atkinson
Chapter 1
Sometimes I think about angels, and I’m not talking about those man-made, Plaster of Paris knockoffs either. You know those kind, surely: chubby little bastards blowing kisses from dainty palms, their equally chubby little wings spread wide as a hooker’s legs, a vapid smile curving their mouths. Nope. I don’t think about those kind too much. Too many of them around my parents’ house, you see; so many that I tell people they’re what drove me to the evils of the big city four years ago.
What I do think about are the real ones: the seraphim, the guardian angels, the archangels. Those who fell from Heaven when they followed that most beautiful creature of all as well as those who remained behind, stuck in paradise because they couldn’t manage out-of-the box thinking. Those ones who, all, have smooth expanses of desert where there should be moist oases of genitals. Those beings created for servitude to the glory of God. Ah, no use for genitalia to do what they do; no, indeedy not. And as you know, genitalia is a very big part of life. It rules us by its very nature of flesh and folds.
Still, do angels think about what their existence would be like with genitals: with a clitoris to raise shudders on nerve endings from sole to soul or a sensitive tip to plunge into secret areas and buckle a sac deep into its surrounding body? Or are angels, like only children free from sibling rivalry, simply unable to imagine what they’ve never experienced?
It makes me wonder if God in one of his exploratory moods granted Lucifer one of these accoutrements—or both, even—as an experiment, and ended up giving the creature an understanding of joining that the rest could never imagine.
Is that why they threw theology’s greatest hissy fit?
It might reassure you to know that I do think of other things. I’m just like you; like most folks. I think about the economy and world peace. There’s also the fact that a half-breed is the newest American President, happier to identify with his African side than his Caucasian for now because it ushers in ‘a new era.’ Not that I’m against all that. I think it’s long overdue that a man of African descent could be President. An African American woman? Getting there. Better yet, what about a bi-racial, bisexual, cross dresser for president. We’d be making real strides as humanity there, now wouldn’t we?
It matters to me, you see, that you understand just how like you I am. That I’m really a regular everyday kind of Joe. Or Josephine. Like you I worry about money, about work, about family. See? All very normal for a middle class heterosexual person.
Well, there is the tiny, very tiny, issue of what gender I am, and whether that gender is the same today as it was yesterday, but that’s no big deal. Not really. Not when you remember how much crap is out there in the world to deal with. A little thing like gender relapse is so little to contend with after all.
But still, you want to know and I don’t blame you. Be you woman or be you man, you ask. It’s not a simple answer, to tell you the truth, and that puts me on the far left side of an already leftist rationale.
Let’s just say that for the last six months I’ve been back in my small hometown, I’ve scraped a razor over my jaw every morning and spared my legs the razor. On Friday nights, I throw cologne beneath my armpits then onto my neck and I go out on the town to get laid, which here in rural Nova Scotia, means a thirty minute walk from my crappy little apartment in the south end to the only bar we have.
It has a patina on the outside that makes it look like whiskey has seeped through the boards and enough dank on the inside that you can smell the chlamydia on every surface. No new efforts have gone into keeping the place clean, no new layer of varnish on the heel-gouged dance floor, and so now, no matter which restroom a body goes into, the toilets and urinals have deep tar colored stains that leak stench into the floors and walls. You feel dirty just looking at the sinks.
And it draws crowds like meth addicts to pharmacy brand cough syrup.
Thea Atkinson