I’m an Angel

Experience taught my kind to avoid public bathrooms. But since experience can’t argue with a full bladder, I took an exit that welcomed drivers to The Idle.

I parked behind some empty chairs that faced traffic. For car watching? I thought, but biology overruled curiosity, and my need for release sent me rushing into a gift shop in search of a bathroom that was, of course, all the way in the back.

A framed sign, taped between doors labeled His and Hers, read: Ask store attendant for key. I read it again, as my bladder screamed that it would not make it back to the front of the shop without exploding.

Showing my bladder that flesh was weaker than thought, I approached the cashier, and said, “May I borrow your bathroom key?”

He looked beyond my face. I wanted to think that he was admiring my glorious hair, but knew he was staring at the hint of wing tattoo escaping the top of my sweater.

“Male or female?” he said.

“What?” The question surprised me. Angels weren’t common in cold cities, but myth and reality merged decades ago. Our physiology was no secret.

“Men’s or women’s bathroom?” he said, in a louder voice.

“I’m an angel,” I said, feeling flustered. “I’m not in love right now, so… I’m neither and both. I mean… any bathroom. I just need to pee. Any key will—”

“We’ve no restrooms for people who can’t tell.”

“Who can’t tell what?” A surge of mixed emotions set my skin aglow, then the man reached under the counter, and my wings and sword burst fully out of my thoughts.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he shouted, brandishing a crucifix between us.

Wings retracted and sword returned to non-being, I walked away from the trembling fool, too furious to apologize for the puddle my bladder rained on his filthy floor.

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the wee notes…
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ~ Mythical Prejudice (Poetry and Flash Fiction with Magaly): write a 3-stanza poem or a very short story (313 words or fewer) that explores prejudice from the point of view of a mythical creature who is part of our modern world.
– Many mythologies and theologies speak of angels as sexless and/or genderless. So, I’ve wondered how these beings might be treated if they were citizens of a world that is very much like ours, but where myth has become reality.
The Idle (still in the making) a tourist attraction in Indiana, which will involve rows of chairs “overlooking the downtown’s interstate”. The idea behind the “attraction” is that some people might enjoy watching traffic… as long as they are not stuck in it.

Rejoice in Your Bicycle of Light and Shadow, I’m Getting Rum

I was asked to write a poem about space and time and a story inspired by the silhouette of an old-fashioned bicycle. So, I wrote of imaginative physics, bicycles… rum and magic.

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“You are someone else’s memories dancing in the arms of chaos,” the angel says, “time, space, colors and taste are made of flesh.” I say nothing, but senses are communal in worlds made of fear or will—I feel her feel my sister’s chant, delight in smugness made of love’s thoughts. “Impossible,” she says, when black, red and the scent of spirits unmake her reality.

She tries to speak again, but I touch a warm finger to the light and shadow of her lips, and whisper, “Shhh, my sister is witching.”

“Out of dark
shadow and light, I
conjure rum.”

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a wee note…
– Linked to Friday Fictioneers. Visit Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ blog, to join the writing yum. Then follow this LINK, to read what others have conjured out of shadowy bikes. And if you are feeling poetic and daring, try Physics with Björn: Space time and the special theory of relativity, over at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.

photo by Jellico’s Stationhouse

A Stinker of a Time

If you’ve read me for more than a season, then you already know that my springs tend to be full of T.S. Eliot and The Waste Land. Who can resist inspiration like: “That corpse you planted last year in your garden / Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?”

“A Stinker of a Time”

I learned the trade from Primavera the Fisher.

“Spring can’t stand botched up winter jobs,” Primavera said, the first morning she took me to the docks. “She always floats their mistakes to the surface. It’s a stinker of a time for us, even when their rot comes carrying gifts.”

Before I could ask what she meant, Primavera speared a severed hand that had been bobbing for sunlight. Its pinky finger wore a huge ruby ring.

“They’ll never be good at winter jobs, if they can’t keep a corpse from blooming in spring.”

In winter, it’s best to bury or burn.

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a wee note…
– Linked to Friday Fictioneers. Visit Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ blog, to join the writing bloom. Then follow this LINK, to read what others have fished out of the docks.

photo by Fatima Fakier Deria