Showdown at The Heavenly Corale

Hi all! Long time, no update. Just a short one going up today, it’s a #microfiction effort that spun a tad out of control. Hope you like.


Time has no meaning here, but, for the sake of the story, let’s call it high noon. The sun beating down with a celestial brightness that would burn out your eyes and leave only an ash-filled husk.

Space has no meaning here, but, so you have a frame of reference, let’s call it Main Street. The citizens of the town watch through their windows, their peeping causing the curtains to flutter as if a breeze ruffled the still air. They have retreated from the usually bustling road, leaving a wide expanse that anticipates the coming blast radius.

The two beings, the two siblings, (let’s call them deputies) face each other from opposite ends of the street, attention locked on each other with a rage that blazes so bright it verges on adulation; wild and ecstatic.

They don’t speak. They don’t need to. Their wills stretch out between them and clash across the distance.

Draw, wills Michael, not wanting to be the first to put hand to metal, but knowing he must follow The Sheriff’s orders.

Stop, wills Lucifer, desperate in their desire to avoid spilling their brother’s blood.

Draw, his plea stops just short of prayer, hand hovering ever closer to his piece.

Stop, wills Lucifer, even as their hand edges closer to their hip, willing to die (and kill) to expose The Sheriff’s corruption.

They drew and, perhaps, Michael was a millisecond slower. If we accept time has a meaning here then, yes, Lucifer shot first.

To say ‘Michael unsheathed a sword that burned so hot it was visible only as a blurred distortion of heat’ would be inaccurate. To say ‘he drew a six shooter whose chamber was loaded with bullets that burned nuclear malevolence’ would be as far from the truth as earth is to heaven, but … perhaps it will give you an idea.

To say ‘Lucifer did not so much take out their sword as seduce the passing photons into solidity, making a blade of manifest light so brilliant that to see it is to know both rapture and oblivion’ would be, at best, a dull reflection of the truth. To say ‘they drew a revolver that shone and pulsed like polished, living crystal and spat gobbets of incandescence stolen from the sun itself’ would at least be getting somewhere … in the same way a ray of light that lanced into your eye across 93 million miles of void gives you an inkling of a star’s brightness.

At first, it seems like Lucifer has the better of it, as the light reflecting off their piece blinds even fiery-eyed Michael, but Michael reaches forwards, stumbling and feeling his way, and wraps Lucifer in an embrace-like hold.

They stand there a moment. An eternity. Entwined like lovers. Until Michael wraps his hands tightly into the substance of Lucifer and tears.

We could call what he takes from Lucifer a shining deputy’s badge. We could call it their wings. What it’s important you know is that he rips some essential part of them away, tearing the stitches of their very substance, and leaves them bleeding and broken.

And when Michael detangled his arms from them: Lucifer fell.


About websterpoet

I'm a performance poet, sometime stand-up comedian and general writer type. I also run a free weekly poetry text that sends poetry direct to your phone, just e-mail me at with your name and number and I'll add you to the 'textshot' mailing list. Also, you can follow me on twitter @websterpoet
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