For the pre-writing stage of the story I'm talking about in my previous post, this is the drabble I made. I'm just brainstorming for ideas at the moment. Good thing the muse's sorta active. :)
by Airiz Casta
He’s supposed to do wrong, to think wrong. But the kind of wrong he’s doing right now is different from the ones he’d done before. He’s not murmuring anything to a human ear now, nor is he sharpening his pitchfork (idiomatically speaking only—they never bring any pitchforks when they’re on Duty, unlike what most humans think). He’s just….staring.
She—or he or whatever, everyone Up there and Down below is sexless—is now standing in front of him, head tilted to one side as if viewing an odd spectacle. Her tresses, he mused, are what sunshine would look like if it can be thawed: flowing and glowing from the inside. The two gossamer structures sprouting from her shoulder blades resembled those of swans, though hers looked a lot more intricate and powerful. Her eyes were electric blue, holding in them the wisdom of someone who’ve seen millennia of human sufferings and the weariness of having to prevent or contradict every step made by…made by someone like him.
It’s not her beauty that he prized the most, though. The warm feeling that she seemed to extract from his chest, from something that he knew wasn’t there…he couldn’t understand it, but he cherished it.
For someone from Down below, this is not right.
“Demon,” said the music that came out her lips, sound bites that he wasn’t allowed to appreciate but appreciated them anyway. He couldn’t help but to smile at that, though deep inside something twisted rather painfully. He’s a demon, yes—and what is she?
“Angel,” he said in response to her call, smirking, and behind that smirk a convoluted face of a pained creature could be seen. Whatever he’s thinking right now…well, Hell would certainly freeze over before that happens.