All posts tagged Spirituality

Writing Book II: The Father of Lights

Published July 19, 2013 by RowanMeir Films

I’m not sure exactly when the love of fantasy and myth captured my heart and lassoed my imagination, but I am sure it was around four or five. My dad always seemed to be watching either an old Western, a war film or anything Ray Harryhausen. Sinbad and the Eye of the Tiger, Clash of the Titans, Jason and the Argonautsgargoyles, cyclops, three-headed hounds and baboonsthey all entertained me throughout my childhood. And I will still watch films like Excalibur, Krull, Star Wars and Neverending Story to this day because of their awesomeness and my fateful nostalgia. I remember looking forward to the moment when my dad would turn on the “tube” or popped in a VHS tape as I entered the domain of impossible worlds and fantastical creatures. And for those of you not born in the 80’s, that means “video…home…system”…ahem.

Working on the second book in the Archangels Trilogy, I cannot help but think of the movies I grew up on and attempt to bring that same kind of wonderment into the unseen world of angels and demons. The conflict of the bad guys, the struggle of the good guys, and on and on it goes.

Image (Concept Art: Scott Edward)

Here’s an excerpt to Book II: The Father of Lights © 2013. Coming soon…

“Father…why have you forsaken me?”

   Ash gently falls from the gray, smoke-filled sky. The colorless flakes swirl and dance all throughout the ebony domain, landing softly and gently on his scale-ridden face. He doesn’t even notice the brimstone powder as it collects on his deformed, reptilian visage. Like a magnet, his one reptilian eye and one cerulean eye are locked onto the malevolent waves of the Lake of Fire before him, watching as they rise and fall. Up and down…up and down. And with each roll of magma, the whispers of his fallen brothers summon him; brothers whose existence ended the moment the lake opened its mouth to receive them in, swallowing them whole as they were hurled down from heaven by God’s mighty hand.

   He hears their last words, words spoken in a patterned framework like that of iambic pentameter—rhythmically, knowingly—they utter a single name. And the closer he listens, the more he understands the tone as the name is spoken. It is a name that was once heralded across the seven realms of heaven with the undertone of power and conviction. A name that no longer holds the same meaning it once held when it was sounded in the light. And as the whispers rise and fall, they continue their moaning as they speak, “Lucifer…Lucifer...”

   He winces slightly as if the sound of his own angelic name wounds him with every consonant, every vowel, as the beat of its echo thumps across his memory, pounding against his blackened heart. And even in the thrumming of his mind, he hears her voice, clear, strong and utterly right in all its utterance thundering over the beat, “You should have listened to me. If you had, you would have never come to this place…”

   This place.

  The prince of hell stares at the malevolent waves, unable to tear his eyes away from the rolling lava that pours forth the memories of yesterday, a millennia ago, and the moment just past. He plays them over and over in his mind.

   “You miss Him, don’t you? You miss heaven, God, the light.”

   He tries to shut his eyes, but wide they remain, as he sways with the rhythm of the waves, his tail slithering within its coil. The rhythm. The beat. He feels the angst and the yearning rising, rising like the smallest of seeds that fights to rise up from beneath, grasping for the sunlight. A seed amongst the thorns.

   “I sometimes miss…the light. But what I miss most…is the music, the music, the music…you know I do.”

   The melody. The song. The voice of his true heart.


   Hearing their mournful chant of stricken grief, he is locked in a place in time where the shout of his name once brought him joy, for the sound of it thundered throughout the heavens—a cacophony of echoes rumbling across the realms of the seven skies. The whispered melody brings on the memories of the past, and he remembers it; standing on the throne to the kingdom of heaven, the entire Angelic Host calling his name over and over again.

   Moving to the melody of whispered tongues, speaking the old language with voices he has long forgotten, he remembers how his name once sounded—triumphant, supreme—the chant of a victor. But the whispers he hears now all throughout perdition are the cry of a victim, invoking vengeance, justice, wrath upon the one whose name they speak, “Lucifer…Lucifer…”

   He cannot tear his eyes away from the phantoms in the waves, for the desire of his fallen brothers is strong. “Destroy. Pay. Amend. Avenge…me.”

   No matter how long he stares at the rolling magma, he cannot will himself to turn away from their curses—especially after what the witch had told him.

   These waves. This place. This lake. My destiny.


   Satan lifts his horned head to the ashen sky of the inferno, but instead of darkness, he sees the light. Heaven. A small sigh escapes his blackened mouth as he thinks on his long forgotten home. He sees its incomparable beauty across all space and time—its own quantum dimension; the ever-changing sky of his home as the color of its canvas dissolves from blue to violet to green as the heavens moved across and within each other, rolling over one another like the waves before him now.


   Gone are the blackened mountains replaced by ivory cliffs of the second realm. Gone are the cries of human souls wailing throughout his brimstone kingdom. And as he longingly searches for the memory of his paradise lost, he hears it, the softest of sounds. His breath catches as he clings to the faint echo of melody. He clutches the memory, grasping for it, focusing all his will onto it so that it cannot escape him like all the times before. The rhythm. The beat. Satan’s horns bend to the sound of fire, frantically listening for the harmony that plucks at his heart—and then it is there. First softly, then gradually the pulse of its sound rises. Like the dawn. Like that of the Morning Star…

   The drumbeat. The rhythm.

   A cold wind suddenly swirls all around him, viciously swiping at him, cutting off his thought. It lashes out at him, whipping the words down upon him, “Not worthy anymore…”  

Written by: #CorinaMarie

(Corina Marie is an actress, producer and screenwriter.)

(Property of NeverMore Publications, LLC. © Copyright 2013)

Buy Archangels: Book I