New Omens 

there's a devil who lounges outside the liquor store. he's there at 3am, 6pm, noon. he has horns that blend in with the car exhaust and a tail with a tip the shape of a heart card and he never seems to run out of lollipops. his leather jacket smells like brimstone and hedonism and long lost causes. his voice is smooth as butter and raw as a salted-up razor blade cut. the store owner pretends not to notice him and gives handouts from time to time. six-eyes, the devil likes to call them. if you look very closely at the top of the owners head you can see the halo. the devil sticks his tongue out at the people who make a wide arc around him going down the sidewalk. his eyes are like a cat's, thin and see-in-the-dark; his chin is adorned by a goatee and his tongue is sharp (that is not a metaphor). he tells anyone who will listen about the house he used to have, how grand and shining it was. the owner comes out near the end of their shift. their eyes have bags under them and the cigarette tints the edge of their head the color of a forest fire. did you hear about that Georgia boy who played me like a fiddle?  the devil asks them. and i thought i was the best musician around. and they both laugh and laugh, because even the best musicians know when it's time for curtain. they talk in every language. eventually they fall asleep with heads on each others shoulders and the store light still on. the devil always falls asleep last. how the fuck did you get here, six-eyes?  the devil asks into the quiet. he wakes up alone after a dream of falling towards the sea. he wakes up feeling the absence of wings. 
there's a devil who lounges outside the liquor store. 

— Annabelle Kennedy