Graying the Lines

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Young Adult  |  House: Booksie Classic

Prolog (v.1) - Prologue

Submitted: June 28, 2018

Reads: 107

Comments: 4

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Submitted: June 28, 2018





This is the tale of dark angels. Many were white angels once, flying high above the clouds, the sun on their wings, gifted by all of God’s grace. But a force shall fall upon these angels. When they are exposed to the evils of the world, they shall become troubled, confused, angry and no longer weightless, burdened with blasphemous thoughts. As long as they serve the good, they shall be protected. But should any give in to these vices, should they wish and want for more, their wings shall grow heavy with greed, and they shall fall. Down, crashing through the trees, branches breaking and tumbling after them. But they shall not stop upon the rocks. They will keep falling. Down, into the fire that gives off no light. Down, into the flames that burn their very souls. It is then that their wings shall burn, and become as black as their inner hearts.”


 A little gruesome, I know, but we live our lives by this standard. It has been taught since the first angel fell. This verse was told as a bedtime story to keep our children in line. It’s the reason we are as we are. It used to scare me when I was younger, and I would pray to God never to hear these voices that darkened the mind. But as I got older it only became more confusing, raised more questions. When angels fall they become dark angels, and there are many of them. But what happens then? They live in an abandoned world, not Hell, they tell us, not quite, that is a place for human souls, but they are cast away somewhere where they can never return home here. They must live a life there. A tortured life maybe, shaped by their own terrible thoughts and actions, but a life nonetheless. So logically some angels must be born there, and what of them? Are they born dark, evil, plotting revenge like their ancestors before them? Are they even given the choice? They didn’t fall like their parents did. They can't all be so cold, right? What if they don’t all want for chaos and destruction? What if? It’s a common question in some circles, maybe, but where I come from you get your feathers plucked for having such ideas.

 I was born here, in the Upper Realm, with wings as white and soft as spun silk. My mother would fuss over them for hours when they first came in. My father would catch her bragging to the neighbors and scold her, threaten to dirty my wings, to singe them or cut them to stop her boasting. The Upper Realm is not a  place for boasting or vanity of any kind. On Earth, humans would call this place Heaven, however, I regret to inform you, it is not like your books will tell you. I was 17 in the Earth Year 2012, and still only an “Angel In Training,” in the program that schools the Dispatch Angels. Not all of us go into this career, but we are all taught the same lessons. This was where we learned about ourselves and how the humans differ. We learned of our history, and theirs, how to interact with humans on the job: kindly, so that they trust us, and forcefully, so they know they must follow our lead. This is where we learn to fight the sins that humans often give themselves over to, to guide them back to the right path. In a short, but spine-chilling lesson in our early years, we learn about the Fallen Ones. Our angel cousins, the ones who abandoned their posts and cast aside their morals. They were often described as having fallen victim to the humans, allowing the other species to taint them and their good morals. We are never to interact with these angels. It was dangerous, they would say, they were dangerous. We were urged to keep this lesson in mind, but to speak little of it, as if even the consideration of their existence would darken our souls.

 But I used to think about those things a lot, sitting tucked away in an overgrown, rundown garden, staring into the Pool of the Lost. Despite its unfortunate name and it’s many warnings from the Elders to stay clear of it, it was the most beautiful place, perfect for letting one’s mind wander. I used to revel in the way the willow trees sagged as if full of heavy secrets. Little did I know how true it was then. I’d fall asleep listening to the grasses, pulled by the wind as it whispered past their stalks. At times, it seemed almost to whisper to me.

 "Laaanii. . ." it would call. "Laaannniiiii. . ."


And this is how my story began.


© Copyright 2019 Mica L. Rich. All rights reserved.


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