WD 48 “Ifrit”

A short story.

Ifrit

Her stumbling foot caught the edge of the cliff, dragging each scaly under-digit across an anti-smooth plateau of concrete. She tumbled under, liquid flooding her eyes, which turned red as she shut them, and there were no fish. Missiles fell from the sky, sharply, like eggs of the ocean. She took up her heaven stick and built a roof of papery armor. She necromanced herself, romantically, being reborn to seek out demons and ifrits; those damned ifrits. The demons down Baker Street were taunting her with lunar lights, moons and suns and hearts and stars and horseshoes and the universe. The city was burning, and the rain never stopped. As a crow flies, destiny hung on a raindrop from her nostril, and divine respiratory milk was her shelter, the mosch of an unwinding zipper. It would never stop raining. Even so, her fingers and toes made lacerations in the sheets, and her wall made casualties of the falling star-flakes.

Everywhere he turned he saw eyes watching him. Photo cameras watched, video cameras watched, the optic lenses in his impotently potential in laws watched, outside the law, illegally. The nature was yellow, unlike his nature which had come through its journey, jumped the wicker gate and tumbled past the celestial city in gray threads. It was autumn, yellow season, and though the yellow eye in the sky lit up with all of the bright flashes any celebrity could ask for, he could not get Virginia to take off her hat.

At dinner, he payed every cent he could find and think to spend. He bought flowers, more flowers, even more flowers and wine, lots of wine. She ate enough of his money to make Messier 31 jealous, and would have gone on to eat his pockets and their lint had he not warned her that his bare legs were not a pleasant sight, not for her eyes anyway, blue; with crystal centers. He did bid her to drink. She was a dainty girl, and only drank one whole bottle of champagne, and only mistook his name seventeen times, and took it in vain twice as much.

Then, he asked her to take off her lovely, lime green cap, which she wore everywhere, even into the shower.

She promptly said, “No.” and gave him a stare like Samuel gave Agag, and she cut off twice as many limbs in her mind (For he squirmed, like a salesman turned into a cockroach in bed with a cold). When she fired her blue lasers at his arms and legs, all of the people in the restaurant saw the lasers and stared at him too, and now he was being watched from all sides by dreadful lenses and eyes. They used to say that the snapping lens could snatch out a man’s soul. He decided that if he saw himself in a mirror, he would refuse to show up on the other side; that way at least he would not be looking at himself. And maybe the self that understood the self was damned to hell with Rehaboam son of Solomon, and Solimon Ben Daud, who commanded Gins.

• I did everything I could. I tried cleaning my room. I tried not cleaning my room. Yesterday I wore a hat. The day before I wore no hat, and still he doesn’t notice me.
• Did you try putting on the hat and taking it off again while he was watching?
• No, darling. That would be immodest. It would be unkind. My father is a sensitive man, and he will think that I am reminding him that he is bald.
• I suppose so. Maybe you should try something more shocking, like tucking in your shirt or getting a job.
• I considered taking all seven of my brothers and dashing their heads open on a stone, but I think the reference would go over his head.
• His head? And it would make him think about being bald again.
• Yes, now you get the picture.
• Steve gets plenty of attention. All Steve had to do was make out with Debby. All Steve had to do was incest.
• Don’t remind me. I’m still washing his blood off my hands.
• Whatever. It isn’t a big deal. God is watching, and so am I.
• And when we do wrong, the devil watches. Perhaps if the evil one sees something that he likes, he’ll tell father to tune in.

Death stopped moving in the middle of the road. Death knew how to dance, and she usually obeyed the traffic rules. The girl with the rain boots and umbrella danced this dance everyday, though no one had ever taught her how to dance. She could walk on water, but only when there was concrete under it. She could stand on faith, but only when it was a fact. Today was a cranky day. Blessings were calculated to the thirtieth decimal point in order to make them seem larger. Miracles tasted like brown rice because not everyone had brown rice and not everyone had miracles, but she’d be damned if she let those damned Ifrits sing her blessings into curses.

Even Zeus, almighty Zeus, didn’t think much of brown rice. Obviously, he was grief stricken. Sarpedon, dead! His own dear son, and nothing but brown rice to eat!

Not a bit of sky was clear. Every inch was dressed in liquid, like it was before the days of Noah, a great transparent veil. Ifrit had one game, two games. His first was to make your eyes red. His second was to sound too much like “Ibis” and ruin the reputation of a perfectly prestigious member of the bird kingdom.

Ibis was turned by a corner, and beheld before her, a kingdom that knew nothing of brown rice. Jeremiah was sitting at his gate, his face was a forecast, but not a rainstorm, and there was no veil.

Jeremiah saw Absalom, who had just taken off his hat and let his megaton locks fall to the wet ground like chains, with Tamar behind him, licking her lips.

Absalom saw Ibis staring at Jeremiah staring at him, and he followed the steam off their bodies that went up into the veiled sky, cutting through the clouds to tell Jehovah that his tea was done.