CONFESSIONS by Cheryl Anne Gardner

"What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas," replied Satan as he leaned in to place the angel atop the tree. Its wings were made of tin foil, and they crinkled in the hot breeze, so he reached out a little farther. The ladder teetered slightly, swayed slightly more, one hoofed foot thrown out to gaiety the other navigating the flaming abyss below via the uppermost step. You wanted to say something, anything at all, but the small hairy midgets kept handing you martini glasses full of tomato juice and black olives. You see, that hotel room had become a prison cell, and Elvis your Rabbi, reciting the last rights in a white leisure suit, all swinging hips and patent leather shoes. You had gone there alone, a tramp, hitchhiking the desert roads drawn like a firefly to the hypnotizing twinkle of oppression. Had gone to shake your moneymaker for any lunatic with a nickel, but your box wasn't a jewel box and the shiv in your hand was nothing more than a shattered piece of glass wrapped in a bit of tin.

"What did you expect, girl?" Satan asked of you again, his voice cocooned in nectar. "Did you think you'd like it better here? I read your diary, so I know. I know you. Nothing makes any sense to you anymore, not like it did when you were in France, when you kissed that woman twice your age. She barely had a pulse, and you, a loaded rifle and a cheering crowd. So hand me the tinsel ... and have another drink. ‘Tis the season's eternal down here."