Liquid Gold

Without reason or regret, we hid behind the broken buildings. They had to come!
The hours passed like slugs in a foot race, slow, slow, slower. Would they come?
Midnight clouds crackled with the contained might of the universe, a pulsing, throbbing, sentient sky. Was it them?
They dropped from heaven like liquid gold, their great, white wings clasped tight, their metallic forms glittering. They were here.
We watched the host like the naughty children we were, unmoving, silent as the void. We'd done it.
The angels stood, wiped the crumbs from their mouths, opened their wings wider than oceans and leapt back into eternity. The last one winked.

50 Word Stories: Featherless

I'd seen it rain water, heard it rain buckets and told tales of it raining cats and dogs; it'd never rained feathers. White feathers the size of surfboards floated to earth to pile like the world's gentlest snowdrifts.
"Now, they're all dead," said gran.
I didn't dare to ask what.

No More Tomorrows

Like falling feathers, they descended, those of golden light and purest white. Soundless, the heavenly host alighted on every surface: roofs; trees; paths; car bonnets, everywhere and on everything.
We thought they’d come to save us, to escort us to that better place, at last. Instead, they took us in with those deep, sad eyes, shook their heads in synchronised shame, shining manes shushing like the oceans and flew away.
I remember it like yesterday because we’ve never had a tomorrow since.

Flowering Angels

From shadows do such angels bloom 

The night displaced by milk of moons

As regal hauntings seek to stir

The midnight calm, the spectral air

Appearing from the noir and still

Deposing night, ephemeral will

The trumpets of the host appear

Let’s listen now, let all us hear

For fear of hour, of dark and night

Be banished by such divine light

Obsidian, the first to go

As virgin white does pool, aglow

And children shall not scare again

The shadows quelled, at peace, in zen

The beauty of the moment ours

In milk of heaven’s angel flowers

Hidden Angels

An angel hid 

Behind a cloud,

Just a wisp,

Just a glimpse;

Milk-white wings.

No, just cloud

They said,

I knew better.

With faith, I watched,


Eyes to the sky.

When the others 

Bemoaned sad lives

Derogatory words

Cast to Earth,

I remained uplifted,


I’ve never seen the angel,

Not again,

Not yet,

But I might.

The smile remains

In preparation.

Ghosts of Eternity

The sun caught upon feathered wings in shining bronze. Contrary to the laws of physics, the creature swooped and pirouetted, dove and rose in a manner belying any thoughts of metallic weight. I shaded my eyes as it banked between a gully in the massif, citrine waves of light rippling across the mountainside in its wake. So much beauty in isolation was a thing of waist, or so I tried to convince myself, my fingers tightening about the net with which I would capture it.


When they’d told me the creatures roamed the northern heights, I had thought them mad. I wanted to believe, of course, desired it even, but my sole goal upon accepting their money for capturing one was just that: to take their money. I left them with a smile upon my face, those desperate villagers watching me leave from behind their accursed doors and windows. They were so convinced, so utterly sure that just one of the winged beasts could change their fortunes. I knew them wrong, of course. There was only one thing that brought wealth to the wealth-less and that was from hard work. Those idiots had forgotten that you only get out what you put in, no more, nor less. They had put their misled trust in a rogue and a scallywag. But, still, I was intrigued.

Two days after leaving those imploring eyes, having traipsed over some of the most torrid terrain I had ever witnessed, I arrived; the flyers were their. Not quite eagle, not quite woman, they traced the outlines of the thermals with eyes that knew eternity. I would know that same eternity, too. I had to. If not, eternity would be lost to a man bereft of the morality others took for granted. There was no place in heaven for a man like me. Not unless I could trick my way inside, that was.

The hike over the morass would have killed a lesser man, the climb up the sheer cliffs destroyed any other, but determination possessed me, or madness, I’m not quite sure which? Eventually, hidden behind a boulder of loose scree, I waited for my prize net in one hand and sword in the other.

It did not take long. The creatures were inquisitive unused to anything out of the ordinary. One of the beasts fluttered down from above to take the shiny, green apple that I had set out for them. No sooner had the thing grasped it, than I pulled upon the net strings and captured the uncapturable.

My laughter echoed around the mountains at the ease of which I had taken both purse and prize. The creature was mine. I would never return to those who initiated my hunt. Fools.

Flourishing my sword in the ruby sunset, I flaunted my brilliance before the thing. That was my first mistake; I looked upon it. There are those who think they know upset, distress, even the misery of death. They know nothing. For as the creature lifted her head, and yes, IT was a SHE, and stared into my eyes with a pain that tore my very soul from its corporal shell, I shared a fraction of HER hurt. There was no ferocity in HER manner, no madness just a reluctant acceptance to HER posture. When SHE spoke, I wished to turn the sword upon myself, but could not, for I was weakling and the true fool.

“Kill me,” SHE whispered. “For I am a fallen angel and seek that which I cannot take myself.”

I held my head unable to speak.

“Kill me,” SHE breathed. “For I have seen a golden eternity and lost it. Now I soar but never feel, see but never know, wish but never dream. Kill me, I am yours to murder.”


I am not proud of what I did, as I look back upon my sin. There is nothing but a darkness left within me since that day. I have become a hollow man, an empty vessel, a washed out being. For, you see, I left HER. I turned my back on that once angel and walked away. If I could have thrown myself from those cliffs, I should have. I could not. To hear the rustling of those iridescent feathers beating in frustrated living, not death, almost finished me. I think that is why SHE cursed me with a share of HER hurt. I carry it close to my heart. It is a knowledge that there is a holy light that emits from behind two golden gates, and the realisation that I shall never ever know it for myself. I am a hurt man. I am dead man walking. I am yet another ghost of eternity.


Last Man Standing

 It’s funny, but you’d have thought it would have made a sound. It didn’t though. Not a rent, tear, or even splintering punctuated that dismal darkness. The angel stood, backlit by the golden glow of heaven’s towers and spires, as he ripped up the night.
 The devil wasn’t very pleased about it. He’d spent millennia trying to make the world his own. No sooner had he done so than Gabriel-I think it was he, as he shone brighter than the others that poked their heads through the rift-popped out of nowhere and restored the balance. Gabriel slashed and tore in forks of rainbow lightning, the world growing brighter by the second.
 When he’d finished and old Mephistopheles lay cringing at his feet, Gabriel bent low and kissed him on the forehead right between the horns. Satan vanished in a puff of brimstone and a vermillion, powdery light.
 It was only once we were alone that the rest of the angel horde fully revealed themselves. I’d braced myself for it, of course, but their magnificense still hurt me eyes. They were all so beautiful, and I was not. It hurt me physically to think that all humanity was going to look like me. But that soon disappeared as Gabriel placed an army of Eves before me. I only wish I’d thought to ask him for a little extra energy. Oh, well, a man’s got to do and all that.

 (Image courtesy of Lemmy-X on