The Troll is Strong with this One

On occasion I write on a site called AuthorStand.  They do user generated contests from time to time (with the only prize being bragging rights - and judging done mostly by peers) which I have submitted to twice now.  

I had posted The Shirt up there for their for money contest as well.  Some of the feedback I got was great, some of it was deriding me for pushing a homosexual agenda, and that God probably has something against it. I've since come across several AuthorStand members who are extremely Christian and in pretty much every thing they write - which often makes their stories bland; touting the same old stories when I'd like to see new, fresh, inventive stories. So when the contest came up for a flash fiction under the title of "Winter" and utilizing a "rose" in the story, I suspect part of me wanted to lash out against this and even if I was not acting a rebel, based on the brazenness with which several authors wrote more parables than stories about how turning to God was the only thing to do, I felt that I could be just as brazen.  Below is my submittal. 

WINTER

I stop at the headstone and kneel, placing a single red rose, purchased earlier at the local florist, upon the grave.  The snow has been falling for hours now, not too unusual for this time of year in Maine.  The grey sky above me reminds me of the many winter days I spent with my grandmother when she was still alive.  She would bring me outside while the overcast sky was illuminated by a shy, hidden sun.  There we would build snowmen and snow igloos until the two of us were exhausted and rosy cheeked.  I miss her even still.
I get up off my knees and watch the first snowflakes begin to collect on the rose.  In minutes it will have crusted over each edge of the flower, giving it a crystalline appearance.  In hours it will be buried; vanished under a thick sheet of white like the letters of my grandmother's grave.
As I stand and think fondly of my grandmother, I adjust my hood.  It is thick with a faux fur padding lining the edge of the felt exterior.  I’ve always loved these coats for the winter.  I would pretend I was an Eskimo while playing in the backyard of my grandmother’s house.
Suddenly, I feel a strong yet scrawny hand clench my shoulder; giving me a start.
“You scared me!” I shout as I turn sharply on my heel.  I search the face for some sign of recognition, yet while I can tell that underneath the fleece outwear the figure is somewhat tall and lanky, I cannot even tell if it is female or male and a hood hide everything but the person’s face.  When our eyes make contact a devious and red, wide smile blooms on its pale and drawn face.
“So, have I won yet?” the person asks mischievously, its voice high pitched and nasal. 
“Who are you?” I implore, “are you here to pay your respects to my grandmother?”
The person completely ignores my query and supplies its own demands, “Guess my name already!” The figure recoils from me and starts to dance around a young tree, denuded by the season, in the graveyard.  “Guess guess!” are the taunts that are flung at me like confetti.
The person does not look dangerous, but I don’t want to incite further passions in fellow that might make it dangerous.  “Uhh” I begin.  What sort of name can I suggest without running the risk of offending.  I still can’t tell the gender of the person.  “Casey?” a good gender neutral name.  I am greeted with a harsh frown.  “Pat?  Kerry?” 
The figure approaches me again, this time taking the tone of an exasperated mother.  “You aren’t doing very well.  Fine.  Let me help you.”  In one smooth motion, the figure pulls his hood revealing short platinum hair.  “Just call me a boy already.” I wonder if he is reading my mind.
Still, he is not familiar to me whatsoever.  “I need a hint” I say sheepishly.  “Where did we last meet?”
“Same place as always, in a graveyard.  Wait!” he stops as a new thought appears to have crossed his mind as he furrows his brows.  “Maybe YOU don’t even know who YOU are!  Oh wonderful.”
“Of course I know who I am.” I reply defensively.
“Then who are you?” he sneers.
“I’m Lily Stanley’s granddaughter.  I’m…” I stop as I realize that for whatever reason, I’ve blanked on my own name.  It has been a weird morning.
He takes my hand.  “Come” and with unexpected strength, he pulls me through rows of unfamiliar headstones.  The snow remains unbroken in the path we take until we reach our destination.  Here the snow has been piled off to the side of a plot, with clumps of icy white sprinkled with specks of rock and dirt that the falling snow is working hard to cover fully.  The plot was freshly excavated but the covering dirt had recently been replaced.  And on top of the plot were eleven long stem roses only slightly covered by new precipitation.
Now I am feeling more than a little bit nervous.  What is this supposed to mean?
“Go ahead, take a look.  Nothing ground shaking I assure you.”  He sings, whistling when he’s run out of words to say.
Grace Burney, b. Feb. 14, 1989 d. Dec. 24, 2012.
I recognize the name as my own.
“How can this be?” I ask, “I’ve got to be dreaming.”
He is completely oblivious, or perhaps unconcerned with my emotional duress and childishly asks,  “Yes, yes, now do you know who I am?”
“No, not at all.  The Grim Reaper?  An angel?  I don’t know.  I don’t believe in any of this.  I’m an atheist.” I say, exasperated.
He chuckled uncontrollably at this.  “I know, it is amusing.  I’ve never heard of an atheist Thor or agnostic Hades, but the world does do strange things to an ignorant god.” he uttered in an unnaturally serious tone, until his face brightened.  “Let’s play a game!”
“But what about this other game you keep asking about if you’ve won?”
“That’s not a game!” he snapped sharply, “That is a bet.  And dearie, you are losing.”
“Ok” I say with trepidation.  “I’ll play this game.”
“I have many names, and so do you in this world.  I’ll give you one of your names, and in return, you must give me one of mine.  Ok!  Start!  You are Pywll.  Now, give me one.”
I stare at him blankly.  “Pywll?”
He turns at me, clearly vexed.  “Fine, I guess that was a hard one.  The answer is Gwydion.  Try this: You are Set.  You are El, later called Yahweh or among others Hadad, you are Jupiter, you are Odin.”
My mind goes fuzzy, but somewhere between my mortal experiences and beyond, these names ring true to me.  “And you are Seth.  You are known as Lucifer…”
“Ouch!  That name doesn’t mean what it used to Zeus.  The Canaanites are all grown up and they’ve since reformed Yahweh and Lucifer into monotheistic legends.”
I continue unhindered.  “You are Mercury and you are Loki.”
“Loki!  Coyote!  I always liked those two the best.  But you recollect yourself, so you cannot avoid the question any longer.  Have I won?” he chirped incessantly.  I know he will not leave me alone in this.
There is no getting around the truth.  “Yes, you have won our bet.  You tricked a god into thinking that I’m mortal this time.  I was wholly convinced.” 
“Double or nothing?” he asks craftily.
“You bet.  I’ll see you in 80 years or so.”

****

Loki watched as the king of the gods took his leave to be reborn as the lone son to a rural Chinese couple.  He laughed over the 11 remaining roses.
“You got one thing wrong.  Not just this time.  Every time.  And I will trick you again, and you will go back to Earth again and again as a mortal.”
But he took on an earnest face that he reserved for rare times, “And this is how I keep us bloody violent gods out of the world of man.  Your children will thank me for this eventually.”