PREVIEW: Fair Balance
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The LOST GENRE GUILD
Biblical Speculative Fiction
| S.M. Kirkland's short story "Fair Balance" can be found in Light at the Edge of Darkness along with 26 other stories of Biblical speculative fiction.
Read more about the author, S. M. Kirkland. |
Posters of dragons and mythical creatures adorned one wall of her bedroom but her
eyes drifted past them in the same glare, stopping on the other wall. Her expression
softened, her eyes studying each cross. Crosses were safe, she determined, as the
heathen and the saved used them symbolically for both mockery and support of their
faith. She mounted them in an array of positions, upside down, right-side up,
sideways. But her favorite was a grouping of similar sized ones forming a strange
wheel. Mounted in a circle, the long ends made the spokes. In between were smaller
ones, in the same circular pattern. Her eyes traced the invisible circle made by the
larger crosses, then followed the smaller crosses.
She loved them, each and every one as the only token of her love affair in a forbidden
world. She couldn’t remember not collecting them in her nineteen years. Chilled, she
brought her black fish-netted legs up and wrapped her arms around them, resting her
cheek on her knee.
She carried this heavy burden, a spiritual heaviness that sometimes wore her down
but she did not bear it alone.
Pushing a strand of bottle-black hair streaked with bottle-ruby red shimmers behind
her ear, she stretched out on the bed, her chains and black leather jewelry clinking
and spreading over her tiny frame. From the other bedroom, her brother’s voice
floated muffled through the wall, invading her privacy.
She was out of time and once she crossed that line, her family would, at best, disown
her. At worst . . .
Tonight
Are you serious? Tonight?
It made sense. Her mom would meet friends for what she called praise and worship,
giving Celisa time to do her dirty work and leave. How ironic, tonight they would
both be serving their own god.
Guilt snaked around her like her chains. Despite their differences, she loved her
brother. A war was brewing in the Cooper household that her brother knew nothing
about. He thought her rebellion during the last year was a way to break out of their
clean, conservative appearance. He teased her about the black fingernail polish,
playfully turned his nose up at her fishnet stockings and offered to take her to a
tattoo parlor to complete her look. Her mother had a fit that shook heaven and hell.
“Give her some time, Mother. She won’t always look like a devil-worshipper,” he told
the woman with a playful smile. “Train a child up . . .”
eyes drifted past them in the same glare, stopping on the other wall. Her expression
softened, her eyes studying each cross. Crosses were safe, she determined, as the
heathen and the saved used them symbolically for both mockery and support of their
faith. She mounted them in an array of positions, upside down, right-side up,
sideways. But her favorite was a grouping of similar sized ones forming a strange
wheel. Mounted in a circle, the long ends made the spokes. In between were smaller
ones, in the same circular pattern. Her eyes traced the invisible circle made by the
larger crosses, then followed the smaller crosses.
She loved them, each and every one as the only token of her love affair in a forbidden
world. She couldn’t remember not collecting them in her nineteen years. Chilled, she
brought her black fish-netted legs up and wrapped her arms around them, resting her
cheek on her knee.
She carried this heavy burden, a spiritual heaviness that sometimes wore her down
but she did not bear it alone.
Pushing a strand of bottle-black hair streaked with bottle-ruby red shimmers behind
her ear, she stretched out on the bed, her chains and black leather jewelry clinking
and spreading over her tiny frame. From the other bedroom, her brother’s voice
floated muffled through the wall, invading her privacy.
She was out of time and once she crossed that line, her family would, at best, disown
her. At worst . . .
Tonight
Are you serious? Tonight?
It made sense. Her mom would meet friends for what she called praise and worship,
giving Celisa time to do her dirty work and leave. How ironic, tonight they would
both be serving their own god.
Guilt snaked around her like her chains. Despite their differences, she loved her
brother. A war was brewing in the Cooper household that her brother knew nothing
about. He thought her rebellion during the last year was a way to break out of their
clean, conservative appearance. He teased her about the black fingernail polish,
playfully turned his nose up at her fishnet stockings and offered to take her to a
tattoo parlor to complete her look. Her mother had a fit that shook heaven and hell.
“Give her some time, Mother. She won’t always look like a devil-worshipper,” he told
the woman with a playful smile. “Train a child up . . .”
The Lost Genre Guild's mission is to promote quality works of Biblical Speculative Fiction (spec-fic)
through its authors, fans; to endorse new releases that fit this criteria; and of course, to glorify Him.
through its authors, fans; to endorse new releases that fit this criteria; and of course, to glorify Him.
TONIGHT.
Celisa Cooper froze, the fingers of her right hand entwined in
one of the many chains and necklaces hanging from her thin,
pale neck. The sterling silver cross felt cool in her hand. Her grip
tightened and her heart thundered.
Tonight? I’m not ready.
Tonight.
Celisa slumped against the huge overstuffed black pillow. Her
artificially dark features, her eyes trimmed in black with heavy
black mascara narrowed in bored dismay, then glared in contrite
acceptance. She would not argue. Ready or not. Tonight.
Celisa Cooper froze, the fingers of her right hand entwined in
one of the many chains and necklaces hanging from her thin,
pale neck. The sterling silver cross felt cool in her hand. Her grip
tightened and her heart thundered.
Tonight? I’m not ready.
Tonight.
Celisa slumped against the huge overstuffed black pillow. Her
artificially dark features, her eyes trimmed in black with heavy
black mascara narrowed in bored dismay, then glared in contrite
acceptance. She would not argue. Ready or not. Tonight.
