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The Temporary Halo
by Julie Michaelson
01/12/12
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Time: During The Tribulation
Characters: Archangel Michael;
Angels in the Assignment De-Briefing Room:
Sylvestor and Briggund;
Zorba, a pot-belly pig just arrived in
Heaven.
______________________________
(A unbelievably HUGE angel is standing, sternly unsmiling,
in a small soft-blue, cloud-shaped room located not far from the Ancient-Hebrew Language-Study Classroom, and Choir-Practice Room.

Even at this moment, an unruly chorus of unmelodious voices, and the authoritatively banging of pearl and gold keys of a baby-grand piano can be heard slightly far-off: practicing for the next Wednesday Night Musical. Now and then, the piano playing would stop and Angel Sorrgienantiello's melodiously
loud voice could be heard saying 'STOP! STOP! Now, LISTEN
to this KEY! LISTEN!' (Bang-bang of a piano key.) Did you HEAR THAT? (Bang. Bang.) 'Did you HEAR THAT? THAT'S
the KEY I WANT! Now.......AGAIN!'. Further down the
cloud-shaped hall, the sounds of Ancient-Hebrew syllables
could be heard in a simultaneously droning sound of classroom voices; a moment a silence would ensue, followed by very loud, harsh unbelievably unmelodious, deep voice belonging to Angel Joachim Yidashilschlechem shouting and spitting: 'STOP! STOP! Listen to how I SAY IT! LISTEN! (Guttural, harsh, staccatto-shouts followed....of a syllable so abrasive that only an angel's inhuman ears could tolerate it.) (Pause.) 'Now......
AGAIN..........!) (Pause.) 'And....
ANGEL NATHANIEL! GET THAT GUM OUT OF YOUR MOUTH!'

In spite of all the racket going on outside of the Angelic Assigment De-Briefing Room, Archangel Michael is calm and focused, eternally as ever: his beautifully-shaped countenance is unmoving and handsomely serene. His deeply accented, almost-whisper-of-a-voice tickling the angels' ears with his soft
Shakespearean-Angel-Speak language: very sensual and romantic, in contrast to the Ancient-Hebrew mono-syllables being shouted down the blue and white cloud-hall. Michael's angelic lips
are beautifully-shaped, full and curved; the Archangel,
however, is aware of none of his beautific qualities; every
passionate breath that he takes is for his Lord, and
his Lord God, only.)
"At.........EASE."

"YES, SIR!"
(The two angels in front of Michael shifted: unimpressively-colored wings relaxing, and big, dirty, bare feet moving slightly apart. Both smelled damp, and slightly moldy, as if they had been hanging around a cold wet basement too long. One of the angels' halos was missing. Both angels, who had twigs,
old leaves and pig-bristly-hair sticking to their dirty-white
gowns, shouted unnecessarily.)
"YES, ANGELIC-SIR!"

(One of the angels, much
shorter and plumper than the
other blond-frizzy-haired one,
burped loudly.)
"SORRY....."
(Burp.)
"......Angelic-SIR!"
(The angel, with mousy-colored
brown hair, put a plump hand
up to his mouth. His big face
was woeful.)
"It's all the EARTH-air......
SIR! It's too....BUBBLY! Always
DOES that to me!"
(Burp.)

(Archangel Michael closed his beautiful large dark eyes, for three heavenly-seconds. Then he sighed; before taking on these two angelic-proteges, Michael had never sighed, before.)
"Sit DOWN,
Angel Sylvestor.
And.....Angel BRIGGUND."

(Both angels plopped, unceremoniously, onto the golden tiled floor. The pure-gold tiles were a little cold; Sylvestor reached over and grabbed a big velvet pillow.....dark blue with tiny sparkly white stars...... off the De-Briefing couch; he tossed it at Briggund, and then grabbed another velvet pillow.....this one baby-blue with little three-dimensional clouds embroidered on it........and squirmed about on the big pillow until he was seated comfortably.)

(Michael patiently waited; again he closed his beautifully-lashed dark eyes: wishing he were flying over Persia right now: about to battle with one of the Greater-Demons of the Satanly Realm. After four and half seconds, he spoke in his strangely-accented, whispered, Shakespearean tongue; very few angels could ever make out what he was actually saying.)
"WHERE is your.... HALO,
Angel SYLVESTOR?"

(Sylvestor leaned forward on
his big pillow and squinted,
as if he were trying desperately to hear.)

(Briggund, who was pulling a
wet leafy twig out of his floppy
left wing, replied.)
"He LOST it!"

(Sylvestor, who had fallen off his baby-blue pillow from leaning over so hard, protested.)
"BUT, we TRIED to FIND IT!
REALLY!
REALLY, ARCHANGEL SIR!"

(Briggund found a blue and white M&M hanging off of his
gauzy gown; instead of popping it in his mouth, he put his
fist around it and......without taking his big baby-blue eyes off the Archangel's twenty to thirty to forty-foot wings which were sparkling-rainbow-colored and pure-gold tipped, nor
the Archangel's magnificently sculptured, pure gold sword
which hung at his side, weighing tons and almost as long as his mountainous wings.....slowly put his fist into his left pocket.)
"YEAH! WE THINK R2D2
TOOK IT, SIR!"

(Sylvestor kept staring upwards, rather woefully and squinty-eyed......and open-mouthed.......at the magnificent and exquisitely tall Archangel; nobody in Heaven looked like Michael, at all. Sylvestor was never really sure if Michael was really REAL.)
"YEAH! WE THINK DARTH-DEMON AND R2D2
FOLLOWED US, ALL THE WAY FROM THE LAST BOTTOM LAYER
OF EARTH'S ATMOSPHERE, SIR! WE THINK THEY WERE ON OUR
TAIL, FROM THE START!"

(Michael frowned: his heavily fringed dark eyes just ever
so slightly slanted above his high cheekbones. Michael's skin was dark-hued, and shimmery like a bolt of satiny expensive cloth; it smelled like a snapping, crackling camp-fire at midnight. So far, in the history of Eons, the Archangel had never smiled.)
"Hm...."
(Michael slowly nodded; his waist-long, black tendrils of soft,
angelic-hair gently teased the mountains of soft feathers of his unruffled wings. His feminine, sensually thick hair was strangely disconcerting against the huge bare muscles of his towering shoulders, and forearms. Michael's halo was so high up that it was hard to see; up close it was as brilliant as gold, and hot to touch.)
"......And, how did you BATTLE
THEM?"

(Sylvestor and Briggund looked
at each other, for one long
moment. The blond, frizzy-haired angel spoke first.)
"We THREW a BAG of M&M's
AT 'EM, SIR!"

(Sylvestor scratched his damp, mousy-brown hair; it didn't
feel right without his floppy, faintly-lit halo. Would he have to travel back down to the Land-of-the-Alamo, just
to retrieve it? Sylvestor shivered just thinking of flying
back toward Earth; he had never been the adventuresome,
or warrior-sort. Maybe, he could just ORDER... a new one.)
"YEAH! BUT IT WAS ZORBA
WHO REALLY SCARED 'EM
OFF, SIR!"

(Briggund had found another M&M in the folds of his gown,
and slowly stuck it in his mouth, without taking his big blue eyes off his supervisor. He slid the candy with his tongue to
the side of his mouth.)
"Yeah!"

(Michael stared: calmly.
He bent slightly, and put a hand out: palm upward.)

(Briggund leaned forward,
scrabbling off his pillow on
the floor. He spit the M&M out.)

(Michael closed his palm about the melting candy, and straightened up: staring over the angels' heads. Briggund's
halo was still aright, though a daddy-long-legged spider, back
on Earth, had dropped onto it and had woven a tiny web around its side. The delicate, brown-colored spider had stayed snug-as-a-bug in the sturdy halo, while the angels were traveling back to Heaven, and was still cradled in its silky web: flopping gracefully back and forth in the light, as Briggund moved his head. If Michael noticed the spider, he didn't say anything. Often the two angels left him speechless.)
"BOTH of you are going to
have to be put on suspension
of Warrior-Duty......"

"AW!"
(Sylvestor did not even know
WHY he was protesting;
he didn't even LIKE the word, 'warrior'.)

"Q....U....I....E....T!"
(Michael's unbelievably loud shout could be heard down the long cloud-shaped hall; for a moment the off-key angelic-singing, and loudly-banging piano playing of Angel Sorrgienantiello in the Choir Practice Room stopped, and even Professor Yidashilschlechem stopped - midway inbetween pronouncing
a particularly hard Ancient-Hebrew syllable for
his falling-asleep students - and looked over toward the floating door of his classroom: spectacles falling down over his angelic-nose. All the students in the Language Classroom turned to look at each other; they all knew WHO was shouting......and WHOM he was shouting AT.)

(Back in the De-Briefing Room,
both just-demoted-Warrior-Angels
were huddled together: big
velvet pillows held up in front
of their faces, like two strange-
looking warrior shields.)

(Michael's deep voice stayed
at the same decibel: it was
no longer a sensual whisper,
though it retained the same
remarkably oddly-sounding
strangely heavy accent. He
began to count off, using both
huge muscle-bound hands.)
"ONE!
YOU LOST YOUR HALO!
TWO!
YOU DROPPED YOUR MAP!
AND.....HAD TO CALL UP TO
HEAVEN FOR YOUR SUPERVISOR
TO WALK YOU THROUGH TO THE PLACE OF YOUR ASSIGNMENT!
THREE!
YOU WERE DISTRACTED,
WITH YOUR BICKERING WITH TWO VERY LESSER-DEMONS*,
WHILE ON A VERY IMPORTANT ASSIGNMENT!
ANGELS NEVER EVER GET
DISTRACTED!
NOT EVEN FOR A MOMENT!
NOT EVEN FOR AN INSTANT!
AND,
FOUR!"
(Michael's twenty-to-thirty-to-forty-foot
wings had begun to sprout open, as if he were about to take flight toward some Higher-Atmospheric Demon. The very air around him had increased four degrees in temperature. Even the daddy-long-legs, in Briggund's halo, stopped happily swaying
in the breeze; the spider, whom the two angels had dubbed as 'Seymour', while flying Home, began to curl up rather warily.)
"AND,
FOUR!
NEITHER OF YOU WERE EVER.....
GIVEN PERMISSION TO BRING HOME ANY.......SWINE.....!
OR.........."
(Michael's heavy accent
became even more pronounced.)
"Or..........PIG!
In a BLANKET!
You were GIVEN ONE HUMAN....CHARGE.....and,
that was ALL!"

(An inaudible mumble came
from behind one of the velvet
pillows: the baby-blue one with
three-dimensional clouds embroidered.)

(One of the thick, heavy feathers from Michael's wings
floated down, and fell onto Sylvestor's brown un-haloe'd
head. Sylvestor reached up to rub the spot; the feather was
as heavy as an Earth-South-Texas-football)
"And,
FIVE!"

(One of the language-student
angels held up a hand to his
classmate: making a 'FIVE?'
silently with his lips.)

(Michael shouted, even louder;
his strangely-accented voice sounded
like the ear-blasting rams' horn, that was used for Coming-of-The-Lord's-Day practice.)
"FIVE!
ANGELS.......
are....
NEVER, EVER to EAT
on ASSIGNMENT!
ON ASSIGNMENT OF THE LORD!
EVER!
EVER!
THEIR COMFORTS
AND WANTS
AND NEEDS ARE........"
(Michael struggled for
the word in Lower-Quadrant-
Angel-Speak; his native-tongue
was from a very peculiar Heavenly
dialect that no other
angel ever heard of.)
"........UN........
.......EXISTABLE!"

(Both pillows were quiet.)

"NOW!
Tomorrow MORNING....
at 6 o'clock SHARP,
you are BOTH to report
to Throne Room DUTY!
IS that CLEAR?"

(Both velvet pillows bobbed
up and down. The baby-blue
pillow with the three-dimensional
clouds bobbed up and down, twice.)

(The Archangel held out two
thick pale blue binders; each
binder was thick with papers.
One binder had "BRIGGUND" boldly
printed on it, in gold. The other
binder was labeled "SYLVESTOR",
in silver.)
"NOW!
THIS is a LIST of requirements.....and
RULES with regard to
Throne Room ETIQUETTE,
and PROTOCOL!
I EXPECT BOTH
OF YOU to spend
the rest of the EVENING....
READING AND MEMORIZING
them! IS that CLEAR?"

(Both pillows bobbed, again.
Two hands, one much smaller
and plumper than the other,
came out from behind the pillows
to take the big heavy
binders. The smaller, plumper
hand dropped its binder
on the floor with a thud. The
plump hand reached out, grabbed the edge of the heavy
blue binder, and dragged it over
behind the baby-blue pillow.
A couple of folders, one
bearing the title "Knowing Your
Ancient Hebrew: The Only
Language Spoken In The
Throne Room", fell out onto
the gold tiled floor. The plump
hand reached out, and palmed
the folders: dragging them
over behind a dirty-white gauzy gown. The title on one
of the other folders was: "Knowing How
to Kneel Properly While Delivering Daily Prayer-Mail-
Platters.")

(Michael stopped breathing
so heavily. Some of the thick
curly black hair on his hugely
muscular chest was gently poking
out of his shimmering,
sparkling-white, gauzy gown.)
"YOU......
BOTH.....
are....
DISMISSED.....!"

(Silence.)

(Just then, a pink-hued,
black and white spotted,
supposed-to-be-on-a-diet
pot-belly pig trotted,
squealing ear-piercingly,
into the room. )

(An angelic-voice, neither
deep, nor melodious,
nor sensual, nor romantic-sounding, shouted.)
"SHOO, ZORBA!
SHOO!"
_______________________
{The first day of work,
Sylvestor showed up wearing
a Temporary Halo: he and
Briggund had found it in the
Drama-Rehearsal-Room, dug
from the bottom of one of the Christmas-Play-Props-boxes.
The halo was all green and red
lighted, with silver tinzel, and tiny plastic camels
dancing all around its rim. For some odd reason, it smelled like old cheese, and wherever Sylvestor went, he was followed
by mice and squirrels.

And,
one supposed-to-be-on-a-diet
pink, black and white-spotted,
pot-belly
pig.}
******************************
And,
I saw
another
angel
fly
in the midst
of heaven,
having the
everlasting
Gospel
to
preach.
[Revelation 14:6]

*Read 'One Stroke to Midnight'.

Copyright 2012.










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