"What are you doing?" asked the news reporter.
"Collecting sticks for the ceremony," Walter said.
"Well, the death of an angel requires something more than casual acknowledgement." He smiled, teeth yellow and chipped, the brim of his ragged hat shadowing his eyes.
"So, you're telling me this was an angel?" The reporter shook his head, even though he was standing in a wheat field in which a large wing jutted toward the midday sun, and an indecipherable mass was spattered all about. He thought the man daft; all these country bumpkins were daft.
"It could’ve been--"
"Could have been? There's no such thing as angels.” The reporter harrumphed. “This was simply some mutant bird. Some freak of nature. That’s all."
Walter's smile grew wide as the shadows thickened, not only shielding his eyes, but annihilating them. The reporter fidgeted as a stone of unease settled heavily in his stomach.
There ya go. Go out and find a painting and write your own short piece. They’re a lot of fun and a good trigger to get the brain muscle ready for bigger tales. Which is where I’m headed now…
|The Visitation by Rob Harrison|