Spirit Wars by Mon D Rea

welling tears.
    ****
    All
the other orphans stood crowding the second-floor balcony and looked down
shyly, awkwardly; many of them confused how they should feel. This was what
most farewells were like in that place, other than being a regular occurrence.
    But
then Little Sophie who was the youngest of the batch uttered my name in her
still unformed language. They were the first words she had ever spoken. She
called out: “She-lak!” at the verge of tears, and suddenly all the others
started chanting, “Sherlock! Sherlock! Sherlock! Sherlock!” as I was led away
to a taxi.  
    I was moved to
the apartment of an unmarried social worker. It was ruled that I posed a threat
to the healthy environment of the orphanage. I overheard them saying how I was
a corruptor of impressionable young minds. But it mattered very little then
because I knew I wasn’t anything anymore. I’ve become nothing.

Chapter XI: Homeschool Hell
    “Good
evening,” I greet as I shamble into Death’s office and Sephtimus utters a
stream of obscenities in classical Latin and ancient Greek. If sentences could
consist entirely of abuse, he was producing exactly those. I can tell even if
the ubiquitous skeletons ( My Helter-skeletals , as Sephtimus fondly calls
them) hadn’t erupted in laughter.
    I
feel like an exorcist about to face the biggest demon-possession case of his
life, but then it’s probably no more than what inner-city school teachers face
every day, I reassure myself. That’s when Sephtimus generates a ball of fire and
flings it straight at me. I shriek and escape incineration by the skin of my
teeth.
    Probably
not.
    I’m
panting like a fish out of water , making echoey, overlapping noises that are
the hallmark of fershees, otherwise unscathed. Then I notice my normally
slippery backside has been charred and there’s this small matter of a flame on
my tail-fin.
    A
hyperactive skeleton races to put the tremulous fire out. It runs screaming and
dragging what looks like giant innards but turns out to be a fire hose. Like a
demonstrator or an unwashed prisoner of war, I’m struck by a jet of foul swamp
water.
    Sephtimus
and his Helter-Skeletals howl with laughter. The sound the reaper makes is that
of grinding tectonic plates transformed into a voice.
    “Stop
it!” I shout, surprised to hear the thought automatically translated into
ancient Greek even though I’ve never learned the language in my life. I regret
the words as soon as they leave my mouth.
    Sephtimus
abruptly stops laughing.
    Your
unclean lips do not deserve the tongue of the Ancients , hecommunicates
to me telepathically before spitting to the floor. His attendants jump on the
chance to serve and polishes the floor back to a mirror-like shine with rugs of
human skin, all spread-eagled and papery.
    You
are worse than a mendicant. They merely eke out an existence in places where
mortals do not turn their gazes.
    Simultaneous ly the
computer monitors flash pathetic images of street people: the self-exiled, the
graying, and those who have been driven away by their families and forgotten.
    You, when you were borne by the Storks, the Crows were right on
their tails. Life and Death hovered over you on the day of your birth. A most
ambiguous existence, no auspicious event ushered your coming. No star marked
your place in the universe and no angels trumpeted your entry onto their list.
    The monitors reveal the invisible battle of elemental forces.
Giant prehistoric birds that glow in immaculate whiteness - the Storks -
screech and snap at a volatile, writhing mass of blackness - the Crows - as the
second attempts to spirit the newborn baby away.
    You are but the shadow of a man, a smudge or a blot that barely
touched the page. The Grim Reaper smiles a crooked
smile.
    I keep my head bowed. Viscous water oozes off my deformed exterior
and sullies the immaculate floor. Muted videos cast shadows all over the room;
all over Death, his henchmen, and me. I don’t need to look up at the