Bedtime, Age 6

    I’m already moving as I bat down the light switch. The dark pushes the light back into the bulb and then swallows it, but I’m flying, my feet clearing any shadowy arms that might snatch from under the bed.  Landing, I scramble to make sure nothing hangs over the edge.  I know the rules for avoiding what lurks underneath.  Following the rules keeps me safe.

    All the monsters in the dark have rules, and six-year-olds know them instinctively.  Light and grown-ups scare them away.  Things that live under beds can’t reach up on top of them.  Blankets protect whatever they cover.  Things that peer in the window won’t come inside if you pretend you’re asleep.  Things that live in closets can’t open doors by themselves.

    Oh, no.

    The closet door is cracked open -- just a little bit, but enough.  The opening is a black slash in the nighttime gloom.  The watching darkness freezes me.  I’m afraid to look, but terrified of looking away.  I carefully sit up, trying to make no sound -- and a bedspring’s creak sends a gasp to squeeze my throat.  The shadows shift around me but I keep my eyes on the closet.  The shapes that flutter at the corner of my vision want me to look at them.  I know better.

    I have nothing but my hands to push the door shut.  I have to reach -- to lean -- over the edge of the bed.  This is part of the rules too.  If you forget to check before the lights are out, whatever happens is your own fault.  That’s when they get you, when you make a mistake.  Mommy and Daddy won't always be there to protect you, you know.  I reach over the edge, trying to watch both the dark slash and the shadowy floor, suddenly forgetting whether something will spring from where I’m looking, or from where I’m not.  I imagine if I push too softly, the door will bounce on the latch and the crack will yawn open like a hungry mouth.

    I forget about whatever is under the bed as I slam my palm against the closet door.  It closes with a too-loud CLACK, and I dive back to the safety zone, burrowing into the warm covers, squeezing my eyes shut so I don’t see the fluttering things that want me to see them.  I lie very still, waiting for my heartbeat to slow.

    The danger fades, and feels a little silly; gentler dreams come out to play like wary mice.  Secure in blankets, all I need to do is act asleep -- until I am.  I'm safe again for one more night.

"Second Chance"

Image via Wikipedia

When Lucifer was invited back to Heaven to petition for readmission, he laughed -- even as he chose his best suit and tie.  Unfurling his long-unused wings and ascending, he mused that he was but a minion when he Fell.  Now he was a ruler.  What could Heaven offer him?  But as he walked the shining white promenades, inhaling the incense fanned by Seraphim's wings and basking in the ambient Grace, he was struck by how the mind kindly forgets the glories it deems forever lost.  Sitting in the waiting room, sipping complimentary Ambrosia, Lucifer couldn't stop stealing glances at the office door.  His palms began to sweat.

A cherub opened the door with precise punctuality and ushered him inside.  He introduced himself, inquired if Lucifer needed anything before they began, and then asked some casual “warm-up” questions.  The script was unchanged since Lucifer’s time on the other side of that table.  After the pleasantries came the only question that mattered in Heaven.

“Do you repent of your sins and come to the Lord asking forgiveness?”

Lucifer had no false modesty about his oratorical prowess.  He had prepared an ode of contrition that could inspire men to form new religions of redemption, and make the Archangels themselves blubber with teary compassion.  It almost seemed a waste to debut it to this fluttering baby whose name he had already forgotten.  His eyes downcast, a penitent smile on his lips, he gave his answer.

“No, and no.”

Lucifer blinked.  Words spun of gold got lost somewhere between his mind and his tongue, and raw truth -- unbidden, undecorated and irretrievable -- came out instead.  This place!  All his subtle talents, developed and honed in the long years since the Fall, counted for nothing in Heaven.  The final bit of artifice, his own illusions, flaked away like charred skin.  The cherub’s big eyes, the color of a clear noon-day sky, held bottomless pity.

“Thank you for your time.”

Lucifer stared at the objects in the tiny interview room, from the tasteful furniture and neat stacks of writing parchment to the way the color of the walls gently diffused light.  The smallest things in Heaven were truly lovely. But they would never value him here.  He could spend an eternity trying, with the same result.  Even Heaven wasn’t worth that. “Thank you for your indulgence, little brother.”

Outside, he could feel Heaven rejecting him, its spaces folding away like a delicate sea creature recoiling its fronds.  He expected the sudden wave of vertigo -- he had felt it first when being cast from the only home he knew.  A second time he Fell, his body gaining speed, his feathers bursting into flame, searing, curling black.  He felt no pain at all this time.  This time he was falling home.

Toy Story 3

I enjoyed Pixar's new movie, Toy Story 3, which elicited a few thoughts:

• It's not a "kids' movie". It's firmly a "parents' movie". The themes of being "outgrown" and having to let go probably resonate strongest with parents, especially of teens.
• Mr. & Mrs. Potato Head raise questions of the nature of the "self": an association of physical parts? Or a ghost in the machine?  The Potato Heads appear to be both.
• Mr. Tortilla Head was Dali-surreal and bizarre. Mr. Doo-Doo Head was just plain wrong.
• Toys feel things deeply, and "betrayal" can send them down dark paths. If any Micronauts come asking for me, please tell them nothing.
• If Pixar wanted to venture into Horror, they made a good start with Big Baby and the Watchful Monkey.  Yikes.
• Ken is not gay. He is merely fabulous.