I spread wide my wings – a delicate, purposeful pose, each tender unfolding fills the room with gusts of warm air, “Well, my child…He is renowned for moving in mysterious ways.” I smiled, beatific. No. I smiled, angelic. The thought pleased me and I chuckled into the room, the burnished edges of my wings brushing against the stained glass behind me. The Victory of St Michael, in burnished gold armour, spear poised to strike Him – their other Him, the opposite face of the coin – poised to strike him down.
It’s almost too easy.
There is something in their innocence, in their naivety, the religious…they come to me, as I wander, the white hem of my robe dragging in the streets, muttering to myself in their corrupt little tongue. “Gloria!” they whisper amongst themselves, “Gloria, angelus!”
My wings unfold, like intricate machines. like clockwork.
I step from the altar, draped in Easter vestments.
I step from the altar, my sword ablaze.
Delightful, deliberate propaganda, to allow a freak like me to walk amongst them.
They don’t even run.
He moves in mysterious ways.
Written for this week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge, their prompt word was ‘freak.‘