A good friend of mine and I have been pushing around the idea of sharing back-and-forth, mirco-fiction. I find the idea a little intimidating, because he’s a better writer than I am, but you’ll never get better without attempting something that is beyond you upper limits.
Here is my first volley.
A boy asked his mother if the angels in the Bible were real.
She said no. They were symbols, interpretations. Virtues and trials come to life.
Are the monsters at the end real he asked his father.
No he said. They were symbols and codes. The names of hopes written on the body of the beast.
The boy said okay and played on the floor some more. His house smelled different on a Sunday. Afternoon light trapping motes of dust warmed the house. Go outside, Someone said.
The boy found a stick. It was a sword, left there by a warrior tired of swinging it. A bolt of virgin-white cloth rolled by in the wind.
Armed, he walked to the gas station. Some coins bought a sweet drink.
Behind the building, an angel took off his wings and packed them into the trunk of his car. He stretched his back, pushed his suspenders off his shoulders, and threw his halo into the sand.