Skipping home from school one day, I felt his breath blow in my ear. The breath was strong: a pig's remains at dusk, slightly turned and sweet.

"It's you!" I spun and twirled to catch him, but his hooves leapt over me, landing in my neighbor's tree. It sobbed and died, poor thing, paling slowly into ash.

"Damn you," I cried and pulled my cloak around me.

He landed lightly on the ground, grass cushioning his cloven feet; his eyes shone crimson, glowing, flecked with gold.

"I am my Father's son," he said. "You know my name."

"And you know mine," was my strong retort. He flinched and we began.

He tapped his hoof - I tapped my toe.

He licked his lip - I licked my teeth.

He laughed out load - I hollered wide.

But then he called his minions - I was done.

He took my hand and we retreated into night, where I awoke, crying for my mother.

A Conversation With Satan--

"Go to Hell!"

Enough said.

(I had a lot of fun writing this--JSutton.)

From iamsuchagreatwriter@blogmess.com

Sunday: It’s official. I’m interviewing Satan tomorrow, and, get this, for the New Yorker. I saw he was coming to Atlanta on his My Space page. A simple text message to Hell, an email to my agent and it’s all set up. Satan’s doing something with foreclosures and street gangs—a Habitat for Inhumanity kinda thing. We’ll all benefit. Less families means fewer SUVs on the roads, and contented gangs means less broken windows for my Audi. (Note to self: rent garage with New Yorker cash.)

Monday: Satan had a few problems at the airport (see ihatetsa.org). Something about not removing his boots because they’re nailed on. He took a flight to Tallahassee and made it through security by walking arm-and-arm with some homeward-bound legislators (They believe!). Interview postponed to Tuesday breakfast.

Tuesday: They said Satan checked out of the Ritz—the air conditioning was way too cold—and moved into a Motel 5 (where the AC was broken). He texted me: “Lunch @ 1.” But where? We’ve got slums, but there’s no Hell’s Kitchen in Atlanta.

Wednesday: Face Book says he’s at the mall today, I guess buying designer leather goods or Bradley fighting vehicles. The New Yorker wants to see a draft. (And I thought all those long boring articles took years to write.) He finally left me a voice mail. We’re on for tomorrow at the aquarium.

Thursday: Now I know what’s killing those whale sharks. (Details in the NYer article.) I didn’t actually speak to Satan yet—he was leading a Clayton County school group around—but we’re on for tomorrow. Grady Hospital. I’m told he’ll be there all day. And night. Especially night.

Friday: Missed him at Grady so tried the court house and even the jail. He’d been there, I could tell, but he didn’t take my call. Stopped at the Clermont for a drink. The Audi needs gas—I’m broke and tired of driving around. I’ll just make the whole thing up. Nobody’ll notice.

jsutton, did you write this? It's confusing because of the author listing.

The chair slid out next to me in the coffee shop and a cool gentleman sat down and asked, "Mind if I sit here?"

I shrugged and said, "Not at all, it’s always nice to meet someone new."

He chuckled and said, "Oh, we’ve met before and you know me…not as well as some, but better than others."

I narrowed my eyes and once I made it past his sharp suit and handsome features, I looked into his and said, "Oh, you."

He nodded, "You’re more perceptive than most. I meet a lot of people every day and they never learn to recognize me."

I took a sip of coffee and looked at him over the rim. I set the coffee down and leaned back in my chair. I said, "They must not be paying attention then. So what brings you to the coffee shop?"

He took a sip of his coffee and looked back at me, "I’m just taking a break. I get so damn busy now."

I nodded, "I can see that. So why my table then?"

He smiled. I noticed that his teeth were perfect and brilliantly white. He said, "You’re one of the people here who, even if they do recognize me, won’t recoil in horror or want something from me."

I laughed softly, "I’ll take that as a compliment."

He tilted his head and asked, "Why?" I could tell from his inflection that he was referring to his previous comment.

"Why my lack of reaction?" I shrugged and continued, "I’ve had my fill of what you offer and learned from it. I no longer need anything from you."

"and why no horror?"

"I don’t think you’re much more than a force of nature…human nature perhaps."

He nodded and asked, "Who made who then?"

"Who cares, because ultimately, there you sit drinking coffee so you can continue your busy day."

He nodded, "A sound enough answer for me."

He looked over at the counter and asked, "Want a scone? I’m buying."

"No thanks, I have to run and pick up my son from soccer."

"Well enough then, I should be off myself."

We raised cups to each other, finished our coffee and left for our tasks.

I added a comment at the beginning to hopefully show that the blog address is just part of the joke. Yikes, I hope I won't be sued by blogmess.com.

I walked down the middle of the tree lined street, calmly taking in the day. No cars, no other people; just me, a warm sun and a whispering wind, with patterns of darkness and light painting the roadway.

Little by little, the green leaves began falling off the trees, floating and twirling down to the ground. As I walked on, the pace of the leaf shedding picked up. I looked closer and realized they weren't leaves, they were $100 bills. Soon, thousands of Ben Franklins covered the street, all landing face up, looking at me, smiling.

I kept walking and came to a spa salon. The front of the salon was all glass. I could see several displays of hair, hand and face products surrounding a waiting area with an overstuffed sofa and chairs. A fireplace glowed to one side, short flames licking the logs in the hearth.

I didn't go inside, but I did look in a full length mirror set up near the door. I didn't recognize myself. I looked much younger, slimmer with a bit of a muscular build. The clothes I wore were also unfamiliar, very chic and stylish and well coordinated, not the silk screened T-shirt and faded jeans I had put on that morning.

I turned and saw my mother standing next to me. For some reason, she looked like Mona Lisa, with that same subtle smile. She was young and tall, dressed in her white nurse uniform, white stockings and marshmallow shoes. She effortlessly picked me up, cradled me in her arms and began walking. I felt uncomfortable, anxious.

We came to a well in the center of town. She stood next to it and dropped me inside. I fell in slow motion through endless darkness, never hitting water. I was afraid at first, but soon became comfortable with the experience, controlling my speed and direction. Finally, I stopped free falling and headed up into light.

I was now somewhere in the country standing in a lush green meadow with cool soft grass cushioning my bare feet. I saw someone lying in the grass and walked toward them. It was a woman in a sheer saffron sun dress and no shoes. Her auburn hair flowed over her shoulders, framing her pale face. Her lips and nails were painted a bright blood red. She was expressionless, vacantly staring at me as I stood watching her unbutton the front of her dress.

The voice of Hillary Rodham Clinton was explaining how a gas tax holiday would help us this summer. Half conscious, I reached over and pushed the radio alarm to snooze.