Michael pushed Fariel away. "This is Heaven," he said. "Since when did an angel play a cello?"

Fariel took a step backwards and slipped on a discarded piece of manna. He hit the floor hard and felt a shooting pain as a muscle in his left wing tore. He felt tears welling in his eyes. "Since now?" he said. "Music is music, surely? If it's played from the heart it must be to the glory of God."

Michael sneered. "We don't want your stinking cello music," he said. "Nobody likes it."

"Surely that's not true." Fariel raised himself onto one knee. "What does God say?"

"Are you calling me a liar?" Michael stabbed a finger in Fariel's direction. "You're calling me a liar." He shouted across the clouds. "Gabriel! This dog-brain is calling me a liar."

Fariel stood up as the seraph strode over.

Gabriel looked Fariel up and down. "What is he?" he asked Michael. "I see wings. I see robes, but I don't see no respect."

"I'm a grigori," Fariel stammered. "There aren't many of us left."

Gabriel pushed him. "That's because we kicked all your dumb-ass brothers out," he said.

"There's a reason why heaven is so popular." Michael pushed him again. "It's because there are no cellos here."

Fariel fell.

Thomas pressed his shoulders back against the frame of the chair and shifted around uncomfortably. His elbow rested on the metal armrest, raising his right shoulder at an uncomfortable angle. He could feel a slight pain in his neck. It crossed his mind that one of the main reasons for disliking these sessions was simply not knowing where to put his hands.

"And the King said unto them, I have dreamed a dream and my spirit was troubled to know the dream."

Laxmi looked outside the window and her eyes could cover the entire bed of sky with stars gleaming and protruding rays of light, as if to bless her on this auspicious occasion of her marriage. She looked beautiful, although it was a bit irksome to adorn a heavy sari, embellished with gold plated embroidery. It was her marriage after all and brides were expected to showcase their ornaments and clothes to fetch the glances of the guests. Laxmi never wanted to get married so early at a tender age of eighteen. But her family's resistance to her idle gallivanting in the house made her endorse the marriage proposal. She wanted to study and be educated like her brothers but this life had snatched away her will to learn and gain knowledge. It was a family tradition of not sending girls to school and getting them married, before the society raised their fingers on the girl's unmarried status.

I have to admit that horses are not my favourite animals. The old adage "dangerous at both ends, and uncomfortable in the middle", summed them up perfectly as far as I was concerned.

So, when it was suggested that we should give up a day's hiking through the rain forest surrounding the lodge we were staying at, in favour of a days horse riding, I was sceptical.

People pickle heads for many different reasons. Some do it as an unusual gift idea- nothing is so satisfying as receiving the head of someone you don't like, attractively pickled in an ornamental jar. Some do it as a warning- the pickled head of a former employee displayed prominently in the office can be a valuable motivational tool for remaining staff, especially if an empty jar is kept ready in the stationery cupboard. Some do it because a pickled head in a suitably sized jar makes an interesting ornament, doorstop, or in the case of a smaller item, such as a pickled eye or ear, a distinctive paperweight. And some just do it because it's fun.

A man sits quietly in his bedroom, holding a gun in one hand. He gets up and walks towards a window, looking out at a little boy running around in his backyard. He takes a deep breath and walks back to the bed and sits. He slowly raises the gun and points the barrel to his head. His hands begin to tremble, as his finger slowly starts to squeeze the trigger.

"I hate you!" she screamed at the mirror.

The angry scar glared back at her, chanting, "You are not a woman, you are a monster!"

She threw the shoe and the mirror smashed, with shards flying in all directions. Disgusted with herself, she burst into tears and threw herself down on the bed heaving huge painful sobs.

In the beginning there was a finite number of people. There appeared to be infinite resources. Adam and Eve wandered around picking fruit until their Makers competition appeared.

The competition won a round and Adam and Eve found themselves kicked through the goalposts of Eden, willy-nilly, pell-mell, quick as you can say Bobs your uncle. Suddenly, they had to compete with the fruit of their loins for the fruits of the land.

5/24--I have a dream about a bear. In my dream, I am wearing my favorite childhood dress, a dainty, red-dotted Swiss with a pinafore reminiscent of Alice in Wonderland. I can still feel the stiffly starched material on my palms; the way the lace collar itches. Mother takes me downtown to get my picture taken, hamburgers and vanilla milkshakes for lunch. As a reward for "smilin' pretty," she gives me a small teddy bear from a sidewalk vendor. I promptly name him Patches and skip the entire way back to the apartment.

Four decades ago, when I was young and stupid and didn't know a baby from a wormy kapusta, according to my Polish mother, I gave birth to a tiny damaged boy on my kitchen table. Just out of high school, I was working in a fertilizer factory and writing earnestly to reshape myself in the image and likeness of George Eliot.