One last time, the angel opened its mouth and sang.

  Holy, holy, holy.

  Abel closed his eyes and sobbed. His only regret would be that he did not see the moment when the angel disappeared. He only knew it was gone when the birdsong finally began to return, and the side of the mountain finally began to cool. A soft, furry pressure rested against Abel as Cain came to console him, nuzzling him, offering him softness and comfort in the face of his impossible grief. Abel opened his eyes and found that not only was the light of the angel gone, but the entire mountain was in darkness. The sun was setting over the horizon, far below the mountaintop. Much time had passed.

  Only Cain and Abel remained.

  Abel slowly pet Cain as he tried to soothe himself, to calm down one more time. But as the last of the sobs wracking his body disappeared, he was more at peace than he had been in a long time.

  Softly, he laughed. “Maybe it wasn’t so foolhardy to come up the mountain after all, was it?” he asked Cain. Cain only woofed gently in response. “You will help me get back down, though, won’t you? In the dark? I can’t imagine the embarrassment of a search and rescue officer having to come for a first responder.”

  Cain licked Abel’s hand and Abel slowly stood. He looked out through the trees at the last disappearing rays of light.

  He pulled out his cell phone and wondered if he had service on the side of a mountain. He wondered if he should call his mother. Or perhaps someone else, someone who had offered him a new purpose. He probably wouldn’t get any reception, but maybe he should check.

  If you don’t look, you’ll never know.

  The Mountains, The Mountains, The Mountains

  Tyler Battaglia

  We Suffer in Fire

  Tyler Battaglia

  Content Warnings: fire, death, murder, religious fanaticism, monster/body horror

  I began starting fires not because I wanted to, but because I had to.

  For I am Moses, you see, and the bush is burning. The world is burning. If I start fires, I can lead the world out of its self-made Hell and into salvation. I am to be prophet. If I cleanse the world with fire, we will receive the new Commandments and I will have saved the world. And shouldn’t I want to save the world? Its very soul?

  The vision I have, I don’t know if it is from God. The angels that I foresee crawling forth from the crust of the earth and consuming humanity, devouring it whole, bit by bit, person by person, do not look Godly. Not with their long, long limbs, their sharp, sharp teeth, their impossible eyes. But I have to believe that my vision is righteous, that whatever gave me this power to start fires, impossible fires, gave me a blessing. That the people I am burning alive are burning for cause. That with each person who dies from choking on the smoke, from the excruciating pain of immolation, I am closer to divinity for the world and for myself.

  There are no other options.

  I am burning the world, burning away its sins. I am burning. But from the ashes, I shall rise. From the ashes, the world shall rise. The angels will devour anyone who is not worthy, and all others shall rise. And I, I am worthy.

  I decorate my sites of atonement with iconography of devotion. By calling to God, calling to Christ, I can confirm to myself that this work is holy. By burning everything down while the Trinity watches on, I am comforted that the people who die here are dying for the Holy Spirit and the grand plan of the universe.

  I tell them so—that they die for the righteousness of eternal life for all that come after them. They don’t fight it. I see terror in their eyes, but I know that they understand: this is the way that it must be.

  With each death, I can feel something coming closer. I know it must be God, for there are no other options.

  With each death, I can feel that we are closer to the precipice. We are close now, I can feel it.

  I grow impatient. I know that if I can burn more, purge and purify their souls, all in one fell swoop, that I will have delivered the world to God as it was always intended to be. He will right it all. Noah guided the world through flood, and I shall do one better—I myself do the burning. I no longer wait for God’s hand to guide me. I decide. I act.

  I burn.

  The apartment seems like the perfect trap. It is easy to board up the windows so that no one can escape. And I set the fire.

  Perhaps it was too obvious. Perhaps God was punishing me for my arrogance, for daring to shape His plan into my own. Still, I think I have won—I am so close now, so close, and I can feel the fabric of the world about to snap into something new, something better—until the responders arrive.

  Until one chokes the life out of me to stop the fire.

  I wonder, which of the Commandments hold true? Thou shalt not kill?

  I wonder, how many did I burn alive for God’s plan? Was it ever His plan at all?

  I wonder what punishment befits my sin.

  I don’t have time to wonder for long. Death comes with a final vision as my soul is dragged from my body. The last thing I see is an angel, sublime, crawling forth from the crust of the earth, ready to consume humanity, devour it whole, bit by bit, person by person.

  Starting with me.

  Divine Body

  Daniel Marie James

  Can you taste it?

  Silky liquid swirls

  Over your tongue

  Splattered on your cheek

  Roses

  Sinking into battered flesh

  You call out to them

  And they whisper a response

  Do not be afraid

  Yet you tremble

  Under watchful eyes

  Cosmic

  Can you feel it?

  Tumbling down the gashes

  They take you apart

  A thread pulls pieces

  Back together

  But wholly wrong

  Masterpiece

  They whisper

  And you fall apart for them

  Again

  In an act of devotion

  Is this not

  Divine?

  halfway to heaven

  Freydís Moon

  I think we might be halfway to heaven, and dare I say: let’s stay

  Count down to midnight with me on every eve of everything we’ve ever decided was ours for the taking

  Tuesday night diner dates / Strewn across the hood of your car—stars igniting

  Breakfast in the afternoon. You, watching me, my passenger seat miracle.

  How you laugh in your throat, a goddamn symphony, and I want to applaud, I want to laugh too, I want to ask:

  when I laugh do you feel like there’s a bird in your chest?

  See, you’ve jacked my mouth open, shoved a dove deep, low, where my lungs flutter / cavernous and scarred and still healing.

  I cough like I used to when I smoked, and feathers come up and out of me. Do you see them?

  My love is one-sided and I’m sorry if it’s heavy, but I’m tripping, babe, I’m falling. And I often wonder

  if Lucifer fell too, if he crashed to Earth and dared to say: let’s stay. If the angels on high

  told him to chew—the bones are hollow; they’ll splinter

  told him to rise—brother, we’re only halfway there

  If he looked at us

  like I look at you

  I wonder if he named the bird

  if he trailed his thumb along the tree of life, chasing God’s blueprints

  like I trail mine along the coffee cup you left in my Jeep, chasing anything, really.

  I don’t know about we but I am halfway to heaven

  dare I say: let’s stay.

  Fade to Black

  Morgan Dante

  Content Warnings: mentions of heavenly violence, aka angel face-melting; mentions of nonbinary transmasc character dealing with deadnaming and transphobia and misgendering; emetophobia

  Meph flips back his silver hair and scoffs at the little field of crushed cigarette butts flowering the asphalt outside the Waffle House. “This is where the town’s only cinema is?”

  “Yep,” Perse replies with a suppressed grin. There’s something liminal about a Waffle House parking lot by the evening highway.

  Crows bicker on the power lines above. Despite the omnipresent car exhaust, Meph’s clove-like fragrance, mingling with brimstone, soothes Perse.

  The demon curls his nose and looks across the parking lot at a small square brick building, with a moss- and rain-streaked sign that reads, Blood Mountain Cinema. Wildflowers, glistening with dew, snarl around the front—also covered with cigarette butts, stamped on and looking like little accordions, or frozen worms.

  The building sits before a small hill with a rash of gold and wine-red trees; the latter color makes Perse think of Meph.

  Meanwhile, Meph’s harsh gray gaze slices into the little mountain town scene. Perse rubs the faded red rose on the side of their neck and thinks:

  He’s lucky he’s pretty. And Perse sorta likes his complaining. Meph insists that he doesn’t care, but if he didn’t care like the “true nihilist” he was, why is he taking in so much of the area and making comments. Obviously, it must matter.

  And what was Perse thinking, making a deal to brighten the most cynical being in the cosmos? Stay with me for a year, and I’ll make you happy. Like they’re the epitome of a positive attitude. Going to work, deadnamed and misgendered by a bunch of Don’t Tread on Me fucks who snicker at they/them pronouns and unironically wear shirts that say, Sarcasm is my second language; their mom would be good friends with them.

  All that, to plop globs of toxic green mix to make pistachio creme cakes for griping customers—and they’re made with walnuts and almond extract! No pistachios. Supermarket bakeries are such a ripoff.

  Positive attitude.

  Perse digs their palm against their sore ear, as the whooshwhooshwhoooosh sharpens to a whistle. “Well, the movie starts in about five minutes, so let’s go, Sunshine.”

  Meph waves a hand and gives a sweeping mock bow. “At your will.”

  Behind them, one of the smoking waiters leans over to another. “Bro, he’s like, so tall.”

  It’s true. Perse wasn’t sure if people would just accept a guy with at least a dozen red tunics, silver hair, and a whole seven feet as a part of life. What they underestimated was people’s need to let life go on. Oh, they’d whisper about that weirdo way too tall fruit who’s at best from Florida and at worst a theater major at some hippie liberal arts college in Atlanta.

  The tail and horns, though, Meph hides with magic; only Perse can see them, but they can just imagine their coworker Amanda going, Oh my God, his cosplay is so good! What a realistic tail!

  As Perse’s sneakers smack the pavement toward the lonely cinema, feeling themselves being watched, they fish an apple-flavored cough drop out of their sweatshirt pocket, crinkling the paper to suck it into their mouth. Even in early fall, when it’s still humid, they prefer wearing sweatshirts and jackets at least twice their size to hide their boobs.

  The people staring are telling themselves a story, a story of someone they think is me, but isn’t. That girl with the tattoo who likes horror movies and isn’t quite right, her and her queer friend who holds the door open for them.

  As if reading their mind, Meph props open the door, painted black with a metal bar on the inside; the demon flings the entrance open and postures a polished boot to keep it in place. Even as he schools his expression, the way his tail curls like a question mark feels smug. Meph takes care not to step on any of the flowers.

  Perse used to despair that no one ever got them, that they weren’t perceived as who they really were. They don’t see me. They see what they want to see. Whatever fits a clear label. But they’ve decided there are benefits to oneself being the only person who will ever truly know themselves. Everyone else is missing out, not me. And isn’t it incredible that there are billions of little worlds floating around just on one planet?

  Breath tasting of the cough drop, Perse sucks air through their nose. Their lungs open up as they walk on burgundy carpet, the small room with a counter and concession stand, the tight air smelling of ammonia and popcorn butter.

  In the dim back of the room, there is a bathroom and two small hallways that jut out; there are only two showing rooms in total, and Perse knows that once the new superhero movie comes next week, they won’t be able to see this movie with a flagging box office unless they get Meph to transport them three hours away or rent it online if it doesn’t stream anywhere with a free trial. Perse only sees three people. One at the counter, another at the concession stand, and another sweeping in the hall.

  Meph rubs one of his sharp canines with his pinky. “Must we stay the entire two hours and twenty minutes?”

  Perse sweeps a strand of curly auburn hair out of their eyes. “Come on, I would’ve taken you for a cinephile.” Despite the fact that they’re barely even friends, they stand close to one another.

  “Isn’t it a horror?” Meph asks with a derisive sniff, idly stroking one of his spiraling horns. “Tsk.”

  They would think oh no if they hadn’t already spent a few months with Meph. “It’s more of a romance.”

  “Oh, you humans so love to categorize things. Romance. Horror. In Hell, it can be hard to tell bodies apart from the masses of suffering souls clamoring together. I can’t separate them, much less all these particulars. When you’ve lived so long and seen so much of the cosmos and its possibilities, the human desire to whittle things down to as simple of labels as possible is perplexing. And really, it’s a horror to believe in the farce of love.”

  Perse crosses their arms. “Okay, it’s a horror romance. Let me guess. You don’t like horror.”

  “I can’t say I’ve enjoyed much new media, including films.” The demon’s definition of “new” extended back about five-hundred years. Which, given how long the cosmos has been around, isn’t too out there.

  “You don’t like movies? Any movies? Dramatic? Campy? Nothing? Be honest.”

  “Oh, some are decent, I’m sure, but most are juvenile.” Figures. If Perse presses, Meph will probably relish them with tales of seeing The Duchess of Malfi at the Grand Guignol and watching audience members faint. And then he’ll kick his feet back on the dining table and sigh, rubbing his narrow chin and proclaiming that that was true art back in the day.

  And yet, Perse sees themself in that cynicism, never being a fan of the action movies or Westerns their parents and grandparents enjoyed.

  “Which one do you like the best?” Perse asks.

  “Which film, you mean?” The demon twirls a finger around a silver strand of hair.

  “Yeah.”

  Meph hums, and Perse admires the cut of his cheekbones as he cranes his chin. “Phantom of the Paradise.”

  That surprises Perse, who, despite loving Seventies stuff, expected something a little more...pretentious. They nod to him. “Brian De Palma. Nice.” They don’t linger on the subject; Perse worries that if they tease Meph’s too far that he’ll duck back into his careful, polished shell.

  With that, they approach the counter. Meph starts to speak, but Perse shakes their head. As much as they don’t like talking to strangers, they want to try.

  Perse deepens their voice, or hopes they do. After all, they can barely hear, and they’ve heard your voice sounds deeper to you than anyone else. “Two tickets for Strawberries, please.”

  The young woman standing behind the counter smiles, her smile kind, her skin wan except for the bluish bags under her eyes, a constellation of acne on her chin. “Sure, that’ll be twenty bucks.”

  Once Perse and Meph are inside the bright-dark of the theater, as a bouncing candy ad plays, Perse pulls out a red bag from their pocket. “Here, split a weed gummy with me. Food and movies just feel better once the high hits. And food is like, I wish it tasted like that all the time.”

  Perse has only just started to like food, to stop wishing there was some injection they could take to get all their nutrients with the constant worry over looking androgynous or even masc with a fuller figure, wondering what nasty comments they’d get if they ever got approved for a mastectomy, and can they be any worse than the comments about how “she” must attract a ton of guys?

  Or their mom laughing and saying Perse never needed a bib because their boobs would catch everything, or talking about how much Perse “inherited her stomach and bubble butt from her dad.”

  But Meph for the last few months was all about the feasts and wine. Savoring the taste of everything, and damn it, Perse realized they liked hot wings and garlic bread and pasta loaded with parmesan and oregano and tea with a slice of lime and champagne. And they were active, walking every day with Meph, and they felt good and complete.

  Humans live such short and fraught lives. Why deprive yourself?

  “I don’t think it will be as potent for me,” Meph tells them, carrying a large tub of popcorn. Nevertheless, he leans down and lets Perse without hesitation bite off half of the gummy and set the rest on his absurdly long devil-tongue. Watermelon flavor bursts in their mouth as both of them sit in the very middle of the theater.

  About twenty minutes into the movie previews, Perse can feel the brain and stomach expanding, and they dig into the popcorn Meph holds. The salt stings their bottom lip where they’ve been chewing on it again.

  When the movie starts with an establishing shot of ocean waves during a stormy day, Meph quips, “How original.” Always with the cynicism before anything can really get going. Perse understands, though. It’s easier to not be disappointed if you give up on committing.

  Perse shushes him, wanting to actually enjoy the movie and not hear a running commentary, and already loving the hazy imagery. They’d never been to the ocean, and it always felt new and immense every time they saw it on film or in a picture. In the film, it’s wreathed with mist, like the ghosts of sea monsters.