Kevin lives in Sugarland, TX with his beautiful wife, three amazing kids, and a neurotic dog. He has dabbled in writing his whole life, but got serious about it 6 months ago. He has 3 publications pending: one from horrorlibrary.net, one in the forthcoming Static Movement print anthology, and one in the November issue of Trail of Indiscretion. The subject matter of his stories has caused his friends and family to question his sanity.

He thinks He has me this time. As always, He underestimates me.

The happy couple never knew what befell them. One minute they dance to their joyous, ear-stabbing music, kissing their smiling families, the bride’s white gown billowing around her as she skips from groom to cake to groom to guest. The next, they cling to each other in delicious, unabashed horror as they are whisked from their festivities into the suddenly maddening sky.

How quickly joy can turn to terror. If my new mouth could laugh, I would eagerly add my cackle to the tumult above.

The bride is ignorant to her importance. She has yet to feel the stir of life within her. Her new mate may have planted the seed, but the seed is mine. And again, He tries to steal what is mine.

His angels swarmed like locusts, their harmonic melodies drowning out the laughter from the wedding. I am always amused at the humans’ reactions. Most freeze in abject dread at the collapse of their comfortable realities. Others see the angels’ true forms and are merrily swept up in their cursed light, singing His praise and pouring their pathetic joy into those God-tainted lutes, unaware that their self-made melodies will wipe their mortal minds clean. They will awaken in the morn and only recollections of matrimonious bliss will remain. And if He has His way, the bride will never miss her stolen son. My stolen son.

He has sent the Minstrel, playing his contemptuous flute to goad His army onward. Let him play. Even a flute forged from the steel of Michael’s sword will prove futile this day.

But the shroud I did not expect. He has added new artifacts to the war, and this one surprises me. The scarlet cloth screams in the voices of all the children He has seized from me since the beginning, and in the crimson I see the blood of my spawn. He means for the childrens’ agony to weaken me, but His arrogance blinds Him to the truth.

I cannot be weakened. I will not yield.

I, too, have new weapons. Even now my minions flock to me, drawn to the brimstone stench of the candles. Dripping with wax scoured from the walls of the Ninth Level and aflame with blessed hellfire, the candles beckon my soldiers forward.

Already I see the first general emerging from the tree above. So I sit and wait in my chosen form, simply a goat that has strayed too far from the herd.

Soon my demons will attack. They are legion, and they thirst for what is mine.

Eternally, the game will rage on.