L. Angel

January 20, 2012 at 5:50 pm · Filed under Mostly fiction, Stories ·Tagged author, Charles L. Mashburn, L. Angels, story

This is part nine of the continuing saga, The Last Grain of Sand, which I began via a prompt at Bluebell Books’ Short Story Slam several weeks ago. The eight previous parts are available by clicking on the links at the bottom of this post. This segment is not being posted to any other web sites at this time, due to my pal, Kellie being on VACATION! Perhaps I’ll post part ten on her Free Write Friday next week, and folks will just have to catch up then. This segment is titled L. Angel. I hope you enjoy it.

L. Angel

We stayed at Lilly’s house that night, and packed two more backpacks with food and various supplies before we went to bed. The house was warm, but tolerable with the windows open. As I lay on my back staring up into the darkness, I was aware of the complete silence. No bugs, no dogs barking, not even the creak and pop you normally hear in old houses like this one. I drifted into a dreamless sleep, and awoke just before sunrise. The dim light of dawn was sneaking across the wood flooring as I swung around and put my bare feet on it. I heard the screech of a spring—the back door—and quickly slipped into my boots.

I stepped quietly down the hallway, and saw Ben, still sleeping soundly in the guest room; Lilly’s room was empty, her bed neatly made.

At the back door, I peered through the rusty screen; Lilly was standing with her back to me, arms resting on the top rail of a tall wooden fence near the barn. The sun was glowing through the trees, and I swear it made it look like there was a halo above her head. She didn’t turn when the old spring on the door complained as I pushed the door open.

I stood beside her, and she said a quiet good morning; almost a whisper. Something about the tone of her voice caused gooseflesh to rise on my arms and my neck went cold.

“You okay?” I asked.

She turned her head and looked at me; her eyes were clear, so I assumed there’d been no recent tears, but the sadness in them was deep. “I’ll be fine,” she said, returning her gaze to the sunrise. “I was just praying we could find them; my parents, the boy’s gram and gramps, and whoever is left.”

“Praying?” I said, a half grin on my face. “The city of Houston—three, four million people are dead from… who knows what, and you think there’s a God to pray to?”

There was fire in her eyes when her head snapped around and she looked at me; the sun hit them at an angle, and flames seemed to shoot from them. Again with the gooseflesh, and I backed off a half step.

“I know there’s a God,” she said. There was no anger in her soft voice, but the tone was tight and sure.

I wiped the smile off my face and held my hands in front of me in a gesture of surrender. “Okay,” I said. “Okay… I just…”

She interrupted me. “You’re not a Christian?”

“Well, technically,” I shrugged. “I was baptized when I was twelve. Let’s just say I’ve been away.”

Her lips curved into a smile, but her eyes were still flashing—like heat lightning on a hot August night. “Well,” she said. “You’re not away anymore. God’s going to need every angel He can round up, and I’m here to help Him.”

I started to smile—thought better of it—then said, “Are you an… angel, or something?”

She looked back to the sunrise as the glow of it burst above the treetops. “Yes.”

 

Copyright © 2012 C. Mashburn

Previous parts of this story:

Part one: The Last Grain of Sand

Part two: Hope

Part three: Like a Fairy Tale

Part four: Then There Were Three

Part five: Cinnamon

Part six: L. Aliens in the Morning

Part seven: Dearest Wife

Part eight: Dearest John

Part ten: The Books

Part eleven: Play Money

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