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The Kiss – Jack Swift – Medium

He woke in a dark place, fingers clawing at the noose that no longer wrapped his neck.

“Looking for this?” The voice was soft, yet filled his head with screaming.

He heard the beat of wings, felt a rush of air and the brush of feathers against his cheek. Then suddenly, there was light — blinding light, piercing his eyes and his heart.

An elegant hand, extending from the brilliance, was the first detail he could make out. Gradually, he was able to see the figure in the heart of the blaze: a handsome youth, sad-eyed, slim shoulders burdened with great wings. From his proffered hand swung the killing noose.

He stepped forward, and the light around him dimmed, just enough for the dead man to see him better. His features were familiar. For a moment of terrible hope, the dead man thought him someone else. But then he realized that the face was not of a friend, but rather, a face he had glimpsed once in a mirror.

Despair overwhelmed him.

“You,” he croaked. His voice was still hoarse from the hanging.

The Bright One held up a hand in placation. The noose still dangled from the other, swinging to and fro like a grim pendulum. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I am not here to hurt you.”

The hanged man turned away, head bowed in despair. Tears stung his eyes, as he realized that he would never see his beloved again. His Lord would never set foot in this dismal place.

“I can love you in all the ways he never could.” The whisper was very close, in his ear. He started and recoiled, realizing the other was just behind him. “You were never good enough for him. Nothing of this world will ever be good enough for him. But me? I love imperfection.”

Shuddering, the dead man turned to face the Bright One. “You made me do it,” he accused. The tears were rolling down his face now, cutting clean lines through the grime.

The Bright One shook his head. “It was in your heart already. Otherwise, I could not have entered in.” More softly still he added, “You’ve already proved you love me more.”

The dead man’s sobbing quieted, his shivers lessened. He looked up into the eyes of fire, and slowly, he nodded.

“I am afraid,” he whispered.

“Don’t be.” The other reached out to stroke his cheek, tracing the path of a tear.

The vast and ragged wings enfolded him, and drew him close. In the arms of flame, he felt pleasure, such as he had never known; peace and love that had before always been just beyond reach. He relaxed into the burning embrace, his eyes closing in bliss.

The clawed hands explored his body, first gently and then, when the man whimpered for more, roughly. They rent his clothes, and then his skin, tearing bright red lines into flesh that wept in the place of eyes run dry. The dead man welcomed the pain, for he thought that he deserved it. It made him able to bear the pleasure, which he did not think he deserved. As the sharp nails bit, pincer-like, into his nipple, he threw back his head and gasped.

The noose circled his neck and pulled him close. He opened his eyes and stared into the beautiful face, whose lips were parted in rapt expectation.

“You want this.” The was voice still soft, yet still so full of thunder, chiming bells, and screaming winds.

“Yes,” the dead man gasped. “Yes, please, quickly.”

And he wrapped his arms and his legs around the angel, who was not an angel; and the fiery hands grabbed him under the thighs and hitched up his hips to a better angle; and then he was pierced to the core with a shaft of pure light. He uttered a low groan and pressed his face to the white-hot chest, hanging on tight as the thrusts rocked him. He was being opened and taken as he never had been, as his beloved had disdainfully refused to do. And he was hard, panting, sweating, even here in this place of death — being fucked, if not back to life, then at least back to himself. He shot quickly, pearly drops splattering his chest for a moment before evaporating in the scorching heat. The other’s orgasm soon followed, filling his bowels with what felt like liquid magma; and it was agony and it was bliss and he didn’t mind.

“Give us a kiss, Iscariot,” the Bright One whispered in his ear.

Judas tilted back his head, offering his lips in mute surrender.

Lucifer’s kiss was sweeter than Christ’s.

The Kiss – Jack Swift – Medium

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For Fear of Flying – Sarah Anne Lawless

serpentandstang:

“If today’s witches no longer leave their bodies in the ecstasy of soul-flight then it is fair to say they also do not believe in the soul, in hosts of spirits, in old gods, in other worlds, or in magic. Without such beliefs and first-hand experience of them, witchcraft becomes a farce of empty rituals with empty words performed in crushed velvet robes. It all becomes a role-playing game no more real or impressive than a group of acne-faced teens rolling dice in their mother’s basement.
…
What is a witch without a host of familiar spirits? What is a witch without knowledge and experience of the otherworld? What is a witch who has never changed form? What is a witch who cannot reach ecstasy? What is a witch who cannot fly? Some would say no witch at all. 

If you want to be a witch, you first must die. Just like the child you were dies when you become an adult, your human self must die to become Witch. The initiated are half alive, half dead. We are souls stuck in between – not quite spirits and not quite human. We shapeshift between forms – now human, now animal, now spirit, now elemental force, now otherwordly being. We drift between past, present, and future knowing that time is a non-linear illusion and all is accessible.  We travel between worlds knowing they are all one and we are present in all of them at all times. We are possessed by spirits and the ones who possess others with our spirits. We are the dream-walkers, shape-shifters, psychopomps, seers, mediums, mystics, visionaries, and miraculous healers. We see the unseen, hear the unheard, travel to unreachable places, and experience the impossible. We dwell in paradoxes within the suspension of disbelief. We dance on the dagger’s edge between life and death, waking and dreaming, magic and insanity. We are unnatural. Supernatural.

So few today achieve such a state with fear being the number two reason, coming after ignorance. We are afraid to fly because magic might be real. We are afraid to fly because it might not be. We are afraid to fly because we think the methods to achieve it are all dangerous. We are afraid to fly because we are afraid to die. Sleep is like death, a slight mimicry of death. Soul-flight is the little death.
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One either flies or one does not. It cannot be forced and can rarely be taught. The secret is in one’s ability to let go… Can you jump off the cliff into the unknown abyss with faith in yourself and your spirits?“ 

For Fear of Flying – Sarah Anne Lawless

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Lucifer Zine #1

I made a zine. 

I would love to be able to make it available for free to people who are not geographically close to me, but printing was expensive and shipping is too. I am working on figuring out how to make it into a PDF that can be freely available– although honestly this first one is mostly comprised of writings that are already on this tumblr. 

And yes, there will be more issues. And yes, future issues will be looking for contributors. Stay tuned. 

Lucifer Zine #1